


Captain Ahhh! Merica

by UndergroundValentine



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU; Bucky is a war vet and Steve is a porn star, BDSM, Body Worship, Bondage, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Family Reunions, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, PTSD, Phone Sex, Platonic Life Partners, Platonic Relationships, Rimming, Scar Worship, Spanking, War flashbacks, extreme graphic violence in chapter 19, graphic content in chapter 34, impending angst, limb loss flashbacks, masturbating while watching porn, mutual masturbation while watching porn, porn au, pwp turns moderately angsty, slow build over short timeline, use of candle wax in chapter seven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 09:26:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 65
Words: 130,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2223930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UndergroundValentine/pseuds/UndergroundValentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky, despite standing in the back of the store staring at an entire wall of DVDs, still couldn’t quite fathom how he made it into a porn shop.  Then again, there were a number of things that he couldn’t quite always imagine himself doing, and yet he happened upon such situations regardless.  However, the porn shop was a new and—still undecided whether or not it was wanted—impressive feat.</p><p>Disclaimer: I do not own any characters, settings, plot lines, concepts, or terminology as created, used,  and owned by Marvel Entertainment, LLC ®. This is a work of fanfiction (Disclaimer borrowed from ohcaptainmycaptain1918 in light of the recent thievery by ebooks-tree.com, in which this work and others posted by myself and countless other authors of this and other sites have been taken without knowledge or consent for profited distribution).</p><p>((Putting this as a refresh since this is now an issue: if Anon - KinkyPeters from wattpad happens to be scrolling through after stealing my shit sometime in January of 2018: go fuck yourself! :D))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OhCaptainMyCaptain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhCaptainMyCaptain/gifts).



Bucky, despite standing in the back of the store staring at an entire wall of DVDs, still couldn’t quite fathom how he made it into a porn shop. Then again, there were a number of things that he couldn’t quite always imagine himself doing, and yet he happened upon such situations regardless. However, the porn shop was a new and—still undecided whether or not it was wanted—impressive feat

Yet, here he was, dressed in dark jeans, a grey t-shirt, black leather jacket, and his unruly long hair pulled back into a half-pony, staring at titles such as _Pulp Friction, Requiem for a Wet Dream,_ and _School of Cock_. Some of them, whether based on title or imagery, down-right put him off his rocker, and he didn’t bother giving them a second look. There was a part of him that wanted to turn and leave, to put up a wall and forget that he— _James Buchanan Barnes_ , sergeant dismissed from duty with honors after an injury and, though rather unrecorded, mental break brought him out of the service—was in a _goddamn_ porn shop.

Truly, though, what was he doing here? He’d been on a walk to clear his head—something he often did since being out of the service—and had been passing down a line of shops and restaurants just off the edge of downtown; he couldn’t quite put himself into the place to handle the cars and the people, as the noise always proved a little too much.

But somehow he’d seen the store name, _Gwen’s Taboo Mystique_ , and so he’d ventured inside. To be met with crops, dildos, women’s lingerie, plugs—both plain and jeweled and entirely obscene—lubricants of all kinds, textures, flavors, and colors, and, of course, _films_.

Clenching his jaw, Bucky tried desperately to think of a shameless and easy way to leave the store without attracting Miss Gwen’s eye. He didn’t belong here. Ex-military-sergeants with artificial limbs did not need to be perusing the film section of an adult store.

Deep down, though, there was something holding him in place, this much was becoming painfully certain as, despite his plans, Bucky _continued_ to stay put in front of cheaply made DVDs. Truly it was almost nerve-wracking, standing in front of over a hundred different titles with similarly posed and casted couples leaving almost nothing to the imagination on the front cover alone. For a while he just stared, blankly, hoping that he could either find the will to leave or muck up enough courage to cover his embarrassment and just pick a goddamn movie already.

Chewing his lip nervously, Bucky looked over the titles one more time. And with each pass, he gave the women on the covers a quick once over, two second tops. But the men earned three, and for this Bucky faltered a moment. Strange, though not entirely surprising; Bucky had spent the better part of the last three years living amongst a squadron composed _mostly_ of men—few women in the 107 th, but those who were there certainly had earned their place; it wasn’t entirely uncommon for him to have given his brothers in arms a once over now and then, mostly to assure their wives over Skype calls that, _yes, Mrs. Parker, he’s even more good looking now with the dirt tan and the scar on his left shoulder. He’ll be fine._

But to be here, in a porn shop, and staring similarly at the stars? That was what felt strange.

Blinking a few times and shaking his head for good measure, Bucky passed by the first half of the wall, ignoring the tightening of his throat as the preferred gender match went from man and woman to man-man-woman, to woman-woman, to man-man. And he stopped again, staring at covers with slimmed down blond men—barely men, by the looks of their baby-faces—pressed against burly, rugged, chest-hair-for-days-Lumberjack-men. And he swallowed slowly, taking in each cover before finding that air became tight and thin for a moment.

Just for a moment, Bucky had forgotten to breathe.

Sucking, quietly, a gulp, Bucky swallowed slowly again, willing the thrum in his ears to quiet as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He walked a little further along the way; he could feel the heat on the back of his neck, the way sweat clung to the baby hairs along his forehead. This was ridiculous; he needed to leave, to go back to the cool air of Brooklyn, to get back to his apartment where he could have a nice cup of coffee or maybe a tumbler of scotch to soothe whatever feverish madness had possessed him.

And he almost did. He almost turned and left without another word, prepared to forget about his adventure into _Gwen’s Taboo Mystique_ if not for the cover of one in particular titled _The Longest Yard—_ oh, God, how many unsuspecting people had searched that title in hopes of finding the Sandler film? On its cover was a broad shouldered, kind-though-devilishly-smirking blond with blue eyes, dressed only in shoulder pads, strategically holding a football helmet in front of his groin. His shoulder to waist ratio alone caused Bucky to suck a breath between his teeth, never mind the tops of his thighs which vanished at the edge of the DVD case, or the way his fingers were long and smooth, gripping the helmet just tight enough to pop the veins and tendons up along his forearms.

Hooking his teeth into his lip once more, Bucky reached out slowly to take hold of the DVD case. He stared at the man on the cover for a moment longer, before flipping it over to read the details on the back. _Steve is at it again, this time in the role of the captain of a football team just after victory, and he’s just as commanding of his teammates off the field as he is on. And, this time, he’s got his eyes—and hands—on more than just one ball._

How revoltingly cliché, yet there was a tremor that raced down Bucky’s spine.

“Find one you like?” Nearly splitting from his skin, Bucky clenched the case against his chest as his left hand tightened into a fist, the plates and gears shifting in his arm to prepare for combat. But when he saw the full lipped face of Miss Gwen, he relaxed—somewhat.

“Y-yeah, I suppose,” he said, not recognizing the sound of his own voice for a moment. It was too breathy, too low and not like himself.

Miss Gwen smirked, taking the case from his right hand before walking up to the front counter. Whether shame or embarrassment, Bucky couldn’t decide, yet his feet obeyed and carried him towards the center of the store where the cash register sat on a wood-carved counter top. Flanking the machinery were sample sizes of a variety of lubricants, as well as a mixed selection of condoms labeled _ten cents a sleeve_.

“Surprisingly not a hugely popular choice by my regular customers, but I do have to applaud Steve’s work.” She said, whipping out small talk like she talked about porn stars as easily as if they were friends. _Wouldn’t surprise me_ , Bucky thought to himself. He said nothing, withdrawing his wallet slowly as Miss Gwen scanned the barcode on the back of the case. “Rental’s twenty for three days, thirty five for a week.”

“Uh… three days is fine?” Miss Gwen’s red lips pulled at the corners, and she smiled sweetly, punching in a few keys on the register.

“This one’s a good one, sweetie. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

Without saying a word, Bucky pulled a twenty from his wallet, handing it over before taking the plastic bag with the movie in it. Miss Gwen winked at him, and he turned away, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat before tucking the bag into the inside of his jacket. It was bad enough to be walking out of a porn shop; it’d be even worse to be seen with merchandise.

Before he could quite make it out of the store, he heard Miss Gwen call to him from her place at the counter. “Just you wait, sweetie, you’ll be back to extend that rental of yours.”

God, he hoped she was bluffing.


	2. Chapter 2

For the first day, Bucky completely ignored the DVD.

He couldn’t look at it. He couldn’t bring himself to even take it out of the plastic bag that it had been gently tucked into. Sure, if he let the three days go by it would be a waste of twenty dollars, but Bucky _could not_ bring himself to stare at that DVD case, let alone even watch it. Whenever it crept into his mind, his face burned with red-hot silliness and he’d force himself to go do and think about other things.

He remembered coming home with it. He’d taken it into his room and shoved it under a magazine on his side table before ripping off his jacket and chucking it across the room; as if touching the bag alone had made his skin crawl. What had he gotten himself into with this damned sex film? He’d watched all slews and styles of porn before, and while, prior to his service, he’d been about bouncing tits and fake eyelashes, Bucky—when he really thought about it—couldn’t bring himself to care too much if he was jacking to the sight of a man versus a woman. Sex was sex, and porn was porn, right?

Despite this, he still didn’t touch it.

The second day, he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the corner of the bag as it poked from under the magazine on the table. Dressed in sweat pants, a short sleeved t-shirt, and yesterday’s socks still on his feet, Bucky wondered how much of a good idea it was to have rented whatever… _adventure_ lay beneath his outdated copy of _Healthy Living_ —where in the hell had he gotten that magazine, exactly? He couldn’t remember whether or not he was subscribed to anything.

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Bucky sighed quietly before slipping off of the edge of the bed before padding over to the table. He reached out, nudging the magazine away from the plastic bag. Against white plastic was the shop’s logo—an eye with a full-lipped kiss in the iris—and beneath that, the obscured face of _Steve_ with a football helmet against his junk. Swallowing again, Bucky lifted the bag into his hands before peeling it back slowly. Crinkling filled the silence and he let the bag fall to the table, holding the DVD case in his hands.

Blue eyes stared up at him, that coy smirk seeming to have stretched wider since he rented the damned thing the day before. Bucky pursed his lips, eyeing the case for a moment before looking over at his player. It was a dusty old thing, and the television couldn’t have been more than thirty inches or so. He often wasn’t keen on television, and preferred to get his news from papers or word on the street. If he felt so inclined, he’d do internet research. But television… television was hard to handle some days.

Setting the case back down onto the side table, Bucky backed away from it slowly, inhaling slowly through his nose. It wasn’t as if this was his first rodeo watching porn, he’d seen his share of erotica and shit. But this was different. At least, it felt different.

Oh, for the love of—

“Unfuckingbelievable,” he grumbled to himself, practically ripping the case open before popping the disk from its slot with his right thumb. Reaching over with his left, he turned on the player and pressed the open-button, before dropping the disk into the slot and closing it again. Turning on his television, he dropped down onto the edge of his bed one more time, waiting with a strange, tickling anticipation as the screen went from fuzzy and black to crystal clear on a steamy locker-room shower.

The camera panned across discarded football gear and a dirty uniform, before coming up the long legs and rotund backside of a white man. Bucky gazed, transfixed as he watched rivers of water cut and cascade down the man’s back, shoulders pulling taught as arms raised to run hands and fingers through short blond hair. The man turned, and Bucky watched as Steve’s face came into view, eyes closed—mother _fucker_ he had long eyelashes—and lips parted as he tilted his head back into the spray of water.

Inhaling deeply through his nose, Bucky shifted his position slightly on the edge of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees, his chin in his right hand. His left, metal and cold, rested atop his thigh.

The camera took several angles of Steve’s body, taking in every inch of lean and rippling muscle before getting a good, long, wide shot of cock—oh _fuck me_ —before inching up his torso once more. His head was tilted back, exposing a long stretch of throat with a ridge of an Adam’s apple, and Bucky’s eyes followed as Steve’s image swallowed. His fingers ran through his hair one more time before he turned to shut off the water.

The view changed as a gruff looking brunette came sauntering into the locker room, hair lined with sweat, arms covered in dirt and grime, uniform saturated in grass and sweat stains. He kicked off his shoes and began removing his jersey and padding as Steve took up a towel to dry his hair. “Good game today,” Steve said, and Bucky sighed.

“Hell yeah it was. Another victory thanks to your calls, Cap,” Steve smiled sweetly, flicking an eyebrow up in response before dropping the towel onto the bench where his own dirty clothes remained.

“Wasn’t just my calls, you know. Coach had a hand in it, too,” modesty was a beautiful trait, Bucky realized, and he shifted again, before deciding to crawl back and lean against the headboard of his bed. He felt too far away for the size of his television, but his back had been beginning to ache, and he was too wrapped into the shitty dialogue and eye-fucking-stares to pause now.

“Coach’s hand isn’t the one I give a shit for,” ooh, snark. Steve’s eyebrow quirked again, and the smirk that occupied the DVD’s case spread across Steve’s lips.

“Is that right?” The brunette eyed him slowly, and a smile stretched over his lips as well. After kicking off his shoes and socks, he stood slowly to cross to where Steve remained. Where one was naked, the other was still adorned in uniform pants.

“Yeah, it is.” Steve’s smirk widened, and his eyes dropped down the bare chest of the man in front of him. Bucky felt his own tighten marginally and his right hand rested, warm and heavy, against his inner thigh.

“Well,” Steve mused, flicking his gaze up to meet his counterpart’s, “what are you going to do about it?” It was the last thing spoken before the brunette tilted his head and kissed Steve, first soft and slow. But it wasn’t long before the kiss deepened, turned hot, and heavy, and it was obvious that Steve was in control; whether willingly or by force, Bucky couldn’t be certain, but he didn’t care in the slightest. And, apparently, neither did the brunette in the film with him.

The moans were heavy, laced with throaty pants and hisses between teeth as lips and tongues met, sometimes passionately, sometimes sloppily. With a bite across the jaw and another quick kiss, the brunette sank to his knees slowly in front of Steve, peppering kisses along his torso before his hands—wrapped from the game—curled around Steve’s cock and balls. Bucky shifted, spreading his legs slowly before allowing his own fingers to cup himself slowly.

Steve moaned, and Bucky followed in quiet suit; while the brunette gently rolled Steve’s balls against one palm while stroking his cock with the other, Bucky rubbed the thin space between his own before gripping his thickening member through his sweats. The camera angled itself, shooting up along Steve’s body to catch his facial expressions while still keeping his fondled cock in view. Between arousal and steam, the head was flushed pink, glistening lightly, and Bucky licked his lips.

There was a cacophony of “Mmm yeah” and “ooh, fuck,”, and Bucky rubbed himself slowly as the brunette leaned forward to place kisses along the head of Steve’s cock. Kisses became licks and Bucky’s sweats were quickly shoved down in an effort to get some proper rubbing as he watched. And when licks turned into quick, shallow sucks, Bucky slid his hand past his boxers as well.

Curling his fingers around his cock, he hissed quietly as Steve’s cock disappeared into the mouth of the brunette. Cheeks hollowed in and Steve’s long fingers sank into locks of hair, pulling gently as his face twisted with ecstasy. For the most part, Bucky couldn’t get past the expressions and fake-sounding moans from most pornos, only finding satisfaction in the movements and wide camera shots. But with Steve, it seemed so goddamn genuine; with Steve it seemed as though a quick cock-suck and ball-fondling was the best fucking thing in the world.

Either it was, or he was just that good.

Regardless, Steve’s fingers tightened in the brunette’s hair and Bucky gripped his own cock forcefully, pumping his hand slowly as his metal fingers curled into the sheets of his bed. He pressed against the headboard, digging his heels into the mattress as he lifted his hips slowly, fucking his palm as Steve began to fuck the brunette’s mouth, his cock inching deeper and deeper past the hollow of his throat. Pressure coiled around Bucky’s windpipe and he let his eyes close for a moment, listening to the moans and gurgled sounds of cock-sucking, and briefly imagined the weight of a cock against his own tongue, or his own cock pressed to the tightness of a throat.

Gritting his teeth, he opened his eyes again to watch; Steve’s muscles tightened visibly as he fucked the brunette’s face, pulling his cock out long enough to let only the tiniest of dribbles fall from the slit onto his lips, before shoving back into his mouth and filling him once more. Bucky’s lips parted as he gasped, his throat drying as he pumped his hand. For a moment he had to stop, and lick his palm a few times before going back to his jack.

“That’s it, suck my cock,” Steve whispered, thrusting his hips slow and deeply, and Bucky whined quietly. He dug his metal fingers into the sheets a little more, thrusting into his own hand as the brunette sucked Steve’s cock. “That’s it, that’s… mm.. yeah… fuck yeah…!”

Steve groaned quietly, jerking his hips a little as the brunette’s lips tightened around his cock some. Slowly, he pulled out, and the brunette’s jaw hung low before he stuck his tongue out slowly. Coated in white, he dragged his tongue along his upper and lower lips, letting cum slick over like a glaze, some of it dripping down his chin. Steve smirked, thumbing the smear before sliding it back into his mouth.

With a groan and a curse, Bucky came, spilling across his t-shirt and hand, panting softly as the brunette sucked on Steve’s thumb, before being pulled up into a dirty kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

On the third day, Bucky went down to renew and, begrudgingly, extend his rental. When Miss Gwen saw him, she started laughing, and Bucky’s left fist tightened in his pocket, the plates of his arm shifting again.

He was fortunate, though, to escape for the most part unscathed by humiliation, and with seventy dollars now gone and not just the one film under his coat but a second as well, Bucky made his walk back to his apartment, each step feeling heavier than the last. Cool wind rustled his hair and he tightened his arm against his side, holding the plastic bag safe against his ribs, his hands buried deep into his pockets to keep the posture natural-looking. No reason to give anyone suspicion that he was hiding anything if it just looked like he was trying to brace himself for cold.

Not that it even, really, was cold, by any means. Bucky had experienced _cold_ …

Chewing his lip, Bucky sighed, ignoring the layer of sweat that had already formed on the back of his neck. He forced himself to continue walking down the street, trying to think of anything else.

In his time of service, Bucky had seen and done many things; some he wasn’t always terribly proud of, some that made it difficult to sleep easy at night. He’d watched good men come into his squadron, and not all of them made it home to their families. Often times he shielded himself from the grief of their loss, as well as his own anger and bitterness over situations he knew, deep down, he could not have controlled. But there were times when Bucky, even on duty, had allowed himself weakness. Fortunately, no one gave him lip over the redness of his eyes or the hoarseness of his speech.

Still, that hadn’t made combat, itself, easy. At the time, it had all seemed like a good idea; to be fighting for the freedom and safety of the country, to be doing good work for the good of the people. To come home a soldier, a hero. It was what his father, and grandfather, had done before him, their family fighting in wars way back to the First World War.

Since childhood, Bucky had idolized the idea of doing something great and heroic with his life. And while his mother may have been disappointed that he chose service instead of pursuing work with his college degree, she didn’t look any less proud when he gave her his last hug before flying out to base. Six weeks of basic training followed by an additional four in linguistics work and advanced weapons training. It wasn’t the most traditional work, but it put Bucky into a position of mastery over Russian, Romanian, and German, as well as four different styles of sniper, some even semi-automatic.

Kicking a rock off of the sidewalk, Bucky kept his eyes down and his arms folded in. He had learned and seen much during his time overseas. He had thought, going in, that he would be a part of the work being done in places like Afghanistan, or Iran. Instead he’d been sent into the snowy hills of Russia, roughly seven-hundred kilometers outside of Lensk on the cusp of the Arctic Circle. And there he was stationed, working on intelligence, training with Russian allies—he could, then, almost picture his grandfather rolling back and forth in his grave—to be then dropped into countries in the Middle-East, along the coast of the Caspian Sea.

But this was during the second Chechen War that Russia was a part of. And plans, drastically, had changed.

Gritting his teeth, Bucky kept his head low, scraping the toes of his boots along the sidewalk as he neared his apartment. He turned to make his way up the stairs when the screech of a car’s horn stopped him, and he collapsed against the railing, breathing heavily for a moment. Down the road someone was cursing, and sweat began to slide down his back as the bag of DVDs slipped from under Bucky’s coat and dropped to the concrete steps.

Trembling, Bucky closed his eyes for a moment before steadying his breath. He reached down with a shaking hand, curling his fingers around the plastic loop before realizing he’d reached left instead of right, and his eye caught sight of the metal of his fingers, how fluid the plates shifted to accommodate the movement that otherwise seemed so goddamn natural.

He lurched, coughing as the few contents of his stomach threatened to spill. Covering his mouth with his right hand, he forced himself to grab the bag, ignoring the gleam of silver as he stuffed the bag back under his coat, climbing the stairs with legs that felt like gelatin.

It wasn’t always like this; sometimes he could go a few days without an incident. There was one time he’d managed a full week and a half of feeling utterly normal; no dreams, no episodes. He’d even managed to be able to look at the entirety of his arm in the bathroom mirror after a shower and not feel sick over the scars. For a week and a half, Bucky managed to feel somewhat okay.

Breathing slowly, he climbed the stairs into the building before keying in his security code on the panel inside the door. He slipped inside, ignoring the woman at the desk who often greeted him with a smile before climbing the stairs up to his apartment on the second floor. He wanted desperately to be alone, to clear his head, to scrape off the sweat and chill that was already settling into his bones.

When he stepped inside, he shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it onto the back of the couch that he’d gotten from an old friend after returning from the service. His shirt stuck to his back and he felt hot, and he made his way to his room, pulling the blasted thing off with one hand while precariously holding the plastic bag by one of its loops with the other. Sighing heavily, Bucky slipped into the confines of his room before shutting the door behind him.

Swallowing thickly, he crossed to his player, slipping the first DVD back into its position before hitting play. He hadn’t gotten past the blowjob from yesterday, as he continually put it on repeat to watch Steve’s face and the way the brunette coated his lips in cum like gloss.

Kicking out of his jeans and boots, Bucky crawled onto his bed, leaning heavily against the headboard. He kept his left arm slightly away from his side; though the coolness of metal might have been welcomed against his flushed skin, his anxiety itched under the surface, and he knew any contact with _that_ part of himself would leave him caved in and shaking for the night. Instead, he gripped the sheets with his fingers again, and rested his right hand against his thigh.

Really, though… This was what he was allowing of himself. A panic attack from a car horn and he thinks jacking off to a cream-toned muscle-blond is going to make everything right with what just happened.

Therapy might be good.

_But therapy is boring._

Licking his lips slowly, Bucky spread his legs a little wider as the shower scene started up again, the steam coiling like a snake around Steve’s body. He stared longer this time, allowing only a few blinks here and there where it felt acceptable to miss a moment of water cascading down Steve’s body. But he wasn’t going to miss the close-ups of his face, the way his eyelashes looked a million miles long, or how his lips parted for breath as his fingers dug through his own hair.

Steam, water, and erotic facial shots, and Bucky was hard.

He allowed his fingers to curl around the base of his cock, squeezing and rubbing gently as the film progressed; he ignored the cheesy dialogue and focused on the way the men angled themselves, so deeply enamored in one another while still being open for the camera. Steve’s lips were fuller, but the brunette’s mouth was wider—better for sucking cock, no doubt. Steve’s shoulders were broader, and Bucky had to wonder what kind of training regimen this man must have gone through to have such a perfectly sculpted physique. Even with his time in the army, Bucky didn’t think he was as shaped as this fucker on film.

He began to stroke himself slowly as the blowjob commenced, watching as the brunette’s cheeks hollowed out and the way Steve’s lips parted in soft moans and sighs. Bucky bit the edge of his lip, relaxing slowly against the headboard as his fingers tightened and tugged on his cock slowly. For a moment he closed his eyes, listening to the sounds on tape, letting his jaw relax and his tongue flatten out, imagining that cock pressing to the back of his throat, making it tight and warm and soft all at once, tasting the bitterness of precum against the back end of his tongue…

He heard Steve’s voice chime in with the “suck my cock”, and Bucky’s eyes opened slowly. He watched as the blond came, and the brunette covered his lips before sucking on Steve’s thumb. Squeezing the base of his cock, Bucky relaxed a little more, willing the drumming in his ears and the pressure in his abdomen to cease just a little. Steve curled his fingers along the jaw of the brunette, pulling him up to his feet before kissing him slowly. The camera zoomed in as cum spilled from between their lips, dribbling down their chins respectively.

Bucky moaned to himself, palming his cock before giving himself one full stroke, smearing his own moisture along the head slowly. He watched them kiss for a while longer before the camera shifted down to capture Steve’s long fingers pulling at the strings of the brunette’s uniform pants. In a quick motion, he took the waistband and shoved the offending fabric down to the man’s lower thighs, freeing a cock that, while impressive, did not come close to matching the girth that Steve possessed.

There was a chuckle and a bit of commentary before Steve’s fingers curled slowly around the brunette’s cock, giving him a long, playful stroke. Bucky was thankful for sitting upon his bed, because he could feel a sensation of weakness in his legs as he curled his hand tighter and mimicked the motions that Steve did. They kissed again as Steve stroked the brunette, before the broad shouldered blond turned his counterpart and eased him onto his hands and knees against a wide bench near the locker doors.

Bucky’s hand stilled as he watched Steve’s hands slide along the brunette’s legs, palms rearing back before slapping the curve of ass, earning a satisfied hiss and a moan to follow. Toes clenching lightly, Bucky rubbed his shaft with his thumb slowly, letting his left hand relax in the tangle of sheets. Steve gave the man before him another several swats, turning a creamy-pale ass bright red within a matter of moments, each smack earning another groan of pleasure.

For a moment there was nothing but Steve caressing the hand marks and leaving kisses along the brunette’s spine. But Bucky watched fervently as those kisses inched lower and lower, teeth nipping playfully as red-marked cheeks before Steve nosed his way along the cleft of the brunette’s ass, his tongue darting out to swipe between his cheeks. Bucky felt himself tighten, and he moaned—louder than he meant to. Clenching his jaw, he swallowed, stroking himself slowly again.

The brunette moaned whorishly, and between instances of burying his face against his ass, Steve would lean back with a smirk and deliver a few more spanks before resuming his work of licking and nipping at skin. At one point Steve pressed his hands to the brunette’s cheeks, spreading them slowly to reveal a puckered pink asshole, to which the camera sucked up greedily as Steve leaned in, dragging the flat of his tongue over the hole. The brunette arched deeply, moaning louder now than at any point in the film thus far.

Bucky, cock aching in hand, wondered if that really felt as good as it looked.

“Like that?” Steve asked, swatting the brunette’s ass once more. There was a mix of moaning, panting, and a drawled out “yes” before Steve leaned in again, flicking his tongue back and forth over the man’s asshole. The camera shifted and took in the sight of the brunette’s face, twisted in ecstasy, eyes closed, lips pursed and chewed red with pleasure. Bucky swallowed, stroking himself a little harder as he chewed on his own bottom lip.

Steve pulled back again, licking his fingers before sucking softly on his thumb. Bucky gasped, his eyes widening as he watched Steve’s lips mold around his thumb, full and flushed, his eyes closing and lashes fanning across the tops of his cheeks before hollowing them out as he pulled his thumb free.

 _Oh, my God, he was born to suck cock_.

Steve pressed his thumb gently to the brunette’s hole, and Bucky watched with a certain fascination as the tip and first knuckle slowly sank and disappeared into the depth of the brunette’s ass. Steve must have smirked, even though his face was not pictured, for Bucky could hear the coy tone dripping off the ends of his words. “Bet you like the feel of my thumb in your ass.”

 _I wouldn’t mind it_.

“Yeah.. ah…” Stroking himself quickly, Bucky’s toes curled and clenched, and much as he wanted to hold off and wait to cum, he knew he couldn’t. Whatever it was about Steve’s technique, the way the camera soaked in his essence and breathed him out like a god, it left Bucky incapable of holding back. And as Steve’s thumb sank and edged free over and over, Bucky could feel the bubbling in his abdomen beginning to heat.

The brunette was moaning loudly, and Steve reached into a nearby bag to retrieve a bottle that, obviously was lubricant, though the label appeared to have been torn off. Withdrawing his thumb, he smeared a small amount onto his fingers before rubbing them together slowly. Another few spanks to the ass and thighs and Bucky watched as Steve’s fingertips traced back and forth over the brunette’s slightly-reddened hole.

“Fuck, fuck, yeah… mm, fuck yeah…” Fuck yeah, indeed.

“Gonna take my fingers real good?” Steve’s voice dropped an octave and Bucky felt himself tremble a little.

“Yes…”

“Gonna take my cock real good too, won’t you?”

_If he won’t, may I?_

“Yes!”

Steve smirked, and pressed his fingertip to the man’s ass, letting the muscles drag him in slowly so as not to hurt his counterpart. There was an elongated and throaty sigh before the first two knuckles disappeared, and Bucky jerked and came at the sight of it.


	4. Chapter 4

On the sixth day—third into his new rental cycle—Bucky still hadn’t left his room. Not to shower. Not even to eat.

Littering his bed were crumpled tissues and a half-empty bottle of lubricant that he’d pulled out when his cock started getting sensitive from all the stroking. He’d long since discarded his clothes, the gleam of his metal arm reflecting the light of the television—which he’d moved onto a smaller table and brought it closer to his bed to better see the glory that was Steve being the best fucking top he’d ever witnessed in a porno.

Fingers lathered in lube, Bucky worked his fingertips along the curve of his balls, sighing quietly as he re-watched the disappearance of Steve’s fingers into the brunette’s tight asshole. There was something so undeniably erotic about watching the length of his index finger slip and sink inside, the way he twisted his wrist and, no doubt, curled his finger on the inside to reach for the man’s prostate. And Bucky knew it had been found when the brunette’s back jerked into an arch suddenly, and a gasp followed a low moan of delight, fingers curling over the edge of the bench he knelt on.

Bucky had seen his share of pornos, both good and bad and some mediocre, but never had he seen someone so talented in just the art of foreplay as Steve Rogers—in between sessions when he need to rest and relax, he’d googled the blond porn star and found that he’d been in seventeen different titles, fifteen of which were with men, two with women; prior to his career as a fan-fucking-favorite, Steve had gone to school for art and took an interest in erotica. The fucker even ran a side blog displaying some of his art.

And if Bucky had thought Steve’s talents remained only in sex, he couldn’t have been more wrong.

Giving himself a gentle cup and squeeze, Bucky shifted his legs wide again; he readjusted the pillow he’d precariously tucked under his hips before slouching a little more against those he’d pressed to the headboard, before reaching for the lube again. On screen, Steve was slowly fingering the brunette—Bucky had finally looked closely at the back of the DVD case to learn his name was Brock—while giving himself a few gentle tugs.

Slowly, Bucky applied fresh lube across his fingertips, smearing them together slowly before tossing the bottle aside on the bed. Reaching down, he skated his fingers across his own hole, shivering as the coolness of the lube met with his heated skin. Clenching his jaw gently, he swallowed as he rubbed circles against his skin, watching as Steve pressed a second finger in beside the first, and Brock groaned, graciously pushing back to take them.

He’d never done this before. There had been a time, way back before he went into the service, where Bucky might’ve messed around and done some things with some people, but it was never this. It was one thing to be aroused and jerk to man on man porn, but it was another to prepare oneself for sticking fingers up assholes and finding a gland also had some nerves and was supposed to feel good. And these were things Bucky had no idea about, really, but watching the way Brock’s face melted into ecstasy and how easy Steve made it look—

Well. How could he be blamed?

Biting his lip gently and fighting the wince that followed, Bucky looked up at the television again as he teased himself, looping circles around the skin before pressing the tip of his index finger to his hole. He started to push, and when the tightness proved too much, he gritted his teeth and stopped for a moment, wondering if he was doing this right. Should he Google it? Use his phone and ask Siri _what’s the safest way to finger my own asshole_?

No. He could do this. He was a trained soldier from the military. He’d figured out more complicated shit.

Shifting his position once more, Bucky tucked his thighs against his stomach and chest a little more closely, brow furrowing slightly as he reluctantly brought his left hand over to cup his cock, moving it out of his line of sight as he teased himself once more. The chill of metal against his skin made him groan, and he tried not to think about how he had a piece of war and pain cradling his most sensitive organ, and instead he focused solely on the task at hand—getting a finger into his fucking ass.

Breathing slowly, Bucky willed himself to relax as Brock’s moans became louder and throatier, and when he snuck a glance to the television he could see Steve stuffing three fingers in while dedicating the use of his lips and teeth to Brock’s pink cheeks and thighs. Moaning, Bucky swallowed the lump resting on the back of his tongue before looking down at himself again. He pressed his fingertip to place once more, breathing slowly, willing the muscles to relax.

Slowly, but surely, the tip of his finger slid in, eased with the lubricant and the fact that he was drawing himself in rather than forcing his finger inside. His lips parted and Bucky gasped, a mix of sensations both good and strange—though not really bad—washing over him as he looked up at the television again. Steve had removed his fingers and was rolling a condom onto his cock, adding a few more drops of lubricant to the sleeve before smearing it across. His fingers were deft, nails clipped and clean as he stroked himself, and Bucky shivered.

He let his finger withdraw for the most part before easing it back in again, moaning quietly as the burn of intrusion dwindled like a smoldering ember. On the screen, Steve’s large hands encompassed Brock’s cheeks, spreading them one more time; reddened, obviously stretched, but still seeming too small, too tight, to take cock that Steve Rogers had been so generously blessed with. _Unfuckingbelievable…_

Bucky, almost mindlessly, eased his finger in little by little, captivated as Steve took hold of himself with one hand, holding Brock in place before rubbing the head back and forth from the cleft of his ass down to where his balls hung and back up again. Against the bench, Brock trembled and moaned, looking over his shoulder at Steve before nodding slowly. His knuckles were white and his shoulders taught, but his hips, thighs, and cheeks were totally lax.

Fixated on the screen, Bucky stared as Steve traced his cock back up to Brock’s asshole before pressing. Before him, Brock moaned, shifting his knees a little wider as his hole stretched, and the head of Steve’s cock slid inside. Mouth dry and throat aching, Bucky licked his lips desperately as he eased his own finger deeper into himself, the metal fingers of his left hand _so very fucking gently_ curling around the base of his cock. A part of him, deep under the fascination of this porno and the need to finger himself into oblivion, tightened and recoiled at the idea of touching himself with the abomination hanging from where his left shoulder once was.

But now was so not the time for such things.

Like water, Steve eased himself out, before letting Brock push back to take him a little deeper. It was evident these two had worked together before, for they moved with a precision that neither were ever off-balance or taken by surprise. For the first few thrusts, Steve barely moved, letting Brock do the work to loosen himself up. Bucky might not have been fully familiar with the intrinsic details of having his ass fingered and fucked, but he knew that it was a delicate process, and being too rough too soon could cause damage. And there was something so hot about watching Brock fuck himself on Steve.

Slowly, Bucky began to thrust his own finger, letting the lubricant ease the slide before he was able to match the rhythmic motion that he could see on television, his metal hand slowly beginning to pump along his shaft. It felt strange at first not to have his own hand around his cock, but there was something… different bubbling beneath the surface of his skin. Whether he liked it or not, Bucky couldn’t decide.

Soon Steve’s thrusts picked up, and the sound of hips meeting thighs with moans and curses filled the audio, and Bucky groaned quietly, curling metal fingers a little tighter around his cock while fingering himself just a little faster. He couldn’t risk going too fast though; he might’ve gotten around once or twice, but this was new, and while pleasure was slowly sinking in like a stone through water, there was a tingling sensation of discomfort that continued to remain even as the slide became easy.

Moaning deeply, Bucky watched as Steve all but slammed himself into Brock, fucking him hard and fast. Metal fingers tightened as the wrist shifted and twisted, getting a better grip, a better angle, and Bucky jerked as the cold tips traced up along the shaft and over the slit of his cockhead, and he nearly came undone then. But he stopped, panting softly before looking down at himself, pressing the finger in his ass a little deeper before curling it, and he jerked and cried out again. Trembling from head to toe, Bucky blinked back the stars that danced across his vision.

So… _that’s_ what it felt like.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” came Brock’s voice from the television, and the camera angled in front of the brunette. Hairline soaked in sweat and steam, the camera was positioned just perfectly to capture both faces of the men, as well as Brocks’ erection swaying back and forth with every thrust from Steve’s hips. Dipping his head, Brock’s shoulders shifted as he bent down onto his elbows on the bench, the line of his back like a highway as Steve gripped his hips and thrust harder still.

 _I wonder what_ that _feels like…_

“Gonna cum.. fuck I’m gonna…”

“Not yet. I’m…nngh— _not done with you yet_.”

_Oh. My. God._

Watching Steve grit his teeth, pulling his lip back into a snarl, seeing the way his eyes darkened as he set his jaw and fucked Brock was something entirely different in Bucky’s mind. He’d seen determination and control like that before, had witnessed it and even done it himself countless times on base and overseas. The way Steve wrote his face for domination and power reminded Bucky almost painfully of war.

 _Only soldiers have that look_.

There was a twist in his gut and Bucky gasped as he rubbed the thin membrane of skin separating himself from his prostate, and with a twist of metal wrist and fingers, he came with a muffled shout, spilling across silver fingers and against his stomach. Panting softly, he sat, staring widely at Steve; the way the camera drank in his face, the way his eyes darkened for a moment and he tilted his head back, a smirk that both excited and terrified Bucky all at the same time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UV: They can't all be sexy and happy right?

Second Chechen War; it had been two-thousand-eight. Winter; cold as fuck, with no promise from commanding officers that the layers of gear and coat would help in the slightest— _they didn’t_. Bucky remembered being in the convoy, during the dead of night, traveling from their base—which had been in the middle of fucking nowhere—to Lensk. _Fucking convoys_.

He could remember sitting in his seat, a nervous twisting in his gut leaving him breathless every time they ran over a rock or a bump buried deep within the snow. He often clenched his gun tighter than necessary, the fingers of his left hand— _his hand_ , his true and birth-given flesh-and-bone hand—curled precariously around the barrel, the butt against the floor of the truck by his boot.

Snow swirled outside. Wind whipped against the windows and Bucky had buried his nose deeper into the fur lining of his coat, wishing bitterly that he could’ve been sent to Iran or Pakistan instead, somewhere warm with dirt. He missed dirt. Dirt was better than ice and snow and perpetual darkness. It reminded him of the vacation he took during high school to Alaska during Christmas. It was always dark. _At least Alaska was peaceful and quiet. Not this shit._

Across from him, one of his comrades smiled from beneath his hood. “Never did take to the cold, did you, Barnes?”

Though his mouth had been hidden, Bucky hoped the sneer could be read from his eyes.

Peering out of the window once more, Bucky sighed deeply, willing his body to stop trembling. It used more energy to tremble than it was to stay still and preserve the heat. The chill cut through to his skin and Bucky steadied himself— _think of when you’re in the ocean, and it’s cold as fuck, and you’re not supposed to flail or kick because you’ll lose body heat. You have to stay curled tight and keep the heat in. It’s just like that._

But the unease persisted, even as Bucky managed to keep himself from trembling too much. Something felt wrong. Amidst the dark and the cold, it seemed unusually quiet. Not that they wanted to have noise following them and ultimately compromise their position, but in the banks of Russian wilderness, there would often be _sounds_. Animals hunting, the tremble of trees as others burrowed down to brave the cold. Perhaps a prayer to Mother Russia—what did Bucky know? But not this; quiet other than the low groan of protest of the vehicle skittering through snow and ice with minimal lighting.

His comrade must have noticed his distress, for he reached over with a foot and nudged Bucky’s boot, his eyes focused and concerned. Bucky shook his head, but kept his brows knitted together, and he tightened his hand around his gun further. If he wanted to speak, he couldn’t; words did not come to him, then.

Swallowing slowly, Bucky felt a tremor race down his spine as sweat prickled at the back of his neck. _Sweat? Am I really so nervous?_

“We’re about ten kilometers out fr—”

That… was when the fire came.

Years of training, care, research, and preparation went up into a ball of smoke and flame as the vehicle in front and behind Bucky’s blew up and landed roof-side down. Wheels spun rapidly as flames engulfed the rubber and chewed through to the axles. Another moment, with eyes wide, and Bucky’s whole world capsized as heat erupted from beneath his feet. Glass shattered and voices rang out in an orchestra of screams and curses. The magnitude of explosives deafened him, and when the vehicle landed on its side and threw Bucky left-side-first out of a battered, broken, burning door, suddenly snow and quiet seemed comforting.

For a moment, to fly through darkness was a dream Bucky never knew he had.

Cold air whipped at his face as snow began to collect on his eyelashes and cheeks. He gasped, desperate for oxygen. Around him the sky and the ground were alight in orange and red, fire streaking across the atmosphere through a haze of smoke. He could hear, from a distance it seemed, gunfire and shouting; but it was like hearing from a long way away, through a tunnel. He couldn’t make out distinctive voices, only the dull hum of warfare.

Gritting his teeth, he sat up from the snow slowly, feeling a pain searing through flesh and bone. Howling, he crumpled back into the white, shaking like a leaf on the wind as he breathed in frozen water, letting it wet his lips and face. Wind cut at him again, and Bucky slowly became aware how cold and exposed he felt, like suddenly he was dropped naked into an ice bath.

Huffing, he tried lifting himself again, but faltered and fell back into the snow. Cold and wet leeched into his uniform and coat and Bucky shivered, kicking at the snow desperately to try one more time to lift himself from the chill of it. Dull, frozen pain throbbed along his calf, up his thigh, past his hip and across his ribs before pulsating like the surface flares of the sun along his shoulder and back. Hissing and cursing, Bucky dug his right hand into the snowy depths, before pushing himself up once more.

Fire, pain, and smoke clouded Bucky’s senses, and he squinted through the haze and dark before seeing his gun tossed some five or ten meters away. Shifting, he bent forward to brace himself on his hands, intending to gather himself and stand slowly. Instead, he fell face first into the snow, landing along his left side with a scream into the wet and dark as another fire bolt of pain laced through his entire being.

Rolling over slowly, Bucky blinked back snow and hot tears as he looked over at himself, and finally he took in the surrounding snow. It was blanketed in red everywhere he’d touched. Red flecks, smears, clots, even a puddle where he had been laying. Heaving, he looked down along himself as another explosion lit up the sky. From above his left boot, charred bits of uniform and skin smoldered, angrily bruised and blackened from fire and smoke. The tatters and ruined skin webbed up his left thigh and the left half of his ribs and chest, gouges cut across where something had seemingly clawed and burned him.

But the worst of it was where his left arm had once been, and the reason why his efforts to brace himself on his _hands_ had failed.

From just above his elbow to his shoulder, there was a mottled, bleeding, burned and haggard mess of flesh, muscle and shattered bone, splintered on the end where it had snapped and been torn away. Air was knocked from Bucky’s lungs as his eyes widened further and further until he was almost certain the force of pulling them back into his skull would push his eyeballs clean from his head. Heat and singed skin crawled up along his neck, and blood continued to spill in a slow, steady stream from where his left arm had once hung.

_James—_

Bucky couldn’t remember whether or not he screamed. Whether or not he made any audible or physical reaction other than the widening of his eyes and the breath that he couldn’t seem to hold in his lungs. He couldn’t remember if the fire raged around him or if the snowfall came and covered everything like waves removing sand castles.

He couldn’t even remember being taken after that.

Pain. Pulsing like an erratic heartbeat and flaring hotter than the sun.

Blood. Red on a canvas of grey and white. Red on the backdrop of a cold Russian night.

Fire. All consuming and explosive, licking at trees and turned over convoys and sapping the strength from the world around.

_Bucky!_

Blinking, Bucky sucked in a breath, sweat dampening his neck and back. In front of him sat a young, modestly dressed, handsome black man with soft brown eyes. He wore a grey pullover and a pair of jeans. The sun was shining through a nearby window. There were… leather seats and a coffee table, and there was a bookshelf in the corner. The blinds were pulled back, and he could see the river just in the distance.

“Hey, man, hey…” Bucky’s eyes wavered back to the man in front of him—Sam… his name was Sam—and he sighed, realizing after a moment that he was shaking violently in his chair. “It’s alright… you’re right here with me.”

“I… I was—”

“—talking about what happened in Russia. It was part of our session today, to try and get through the rougher stuff. You went into it, and you didn’t come out for a bit. But you’re okay, Bucky. You’re okay. You’re safe and sound with me in Brooklyn. You’re not in Russia anymore.”

“Of.. of course, I’m not…?”

Sam smiled warmly, reaching over to hand Bucky a cup of something warm. “You kept mumbling ‘it’s cold, I want to go home’.” Bucky’s face felt hot and he took the drink, avoiding the gleam of metal under his jacket. He should’ve brought a glove to cover the hand. He took a sip from the cup, finding there to be some sort of tea. It tasted nice.

For a moment he said nothing, instead preferring to indulge on the warmth of the tea. He could still feel the chill of the snow, the dullness in his hearing from the explosions, the searing agony of his shoulder, the blood all around… He trembled again, and Sam shifted in his seat.

“For what it’s worth… you’re tough, man. You saw things and experienced a whole side of combat that no one will ever understand. And you’re here, and you’re alive. You’re making it day by day, and that is something to be proud of, Bucky. It won’t be easy, but at least you’re getting up in the morning. And even if there comes a day and you don’t, it’s okay. Know that it’s okay to take your time.”

Bucky nodded slowly, swallowing more of the tea. Across from him, Sam smiled softly before standing slowly, crossing over to a small desk that was in the corner of two windows. He pulled out a notebook and a pen, tearing out a sheet of paper.

“I’m going to give you a list of suggestions; they’ll help you cope with the flashbacks, and help you out of them more easily. Do you have anything that helps you relax, cause that will be good for you, too,” Bucky looked up at him, puzzled, and Sam licked his lips, “like… the way it is, we have to learn how to feel comfortable and safe again, right? And for each person, it takes more time. Some people can recover really easily, and quickly. For others it can take longer, or it takes a multitude of options, or very specific things. If you find something that helps you relax and helps put you into a state of calm, you might be able to handle your flashbacks a little better. It could also help you start to acknowledge your arm.”

“It’s not _my_ arm.” It was the first thing Bucky had said since being pulled from Russia, from cold, from fire, blood, pain, smoke, pain, arm, arm, arm, arm—

“I know. But, maybe, one day, it can be.”


	6. Chapter 6

Bucky never got around to watching the second film.

Between thoroughly enjoying the first—he still couldn’t get over the dominant nature Steve possessed over Brock—and other responsibilities having the nerve to call him away from the safety and security of his apartment, Bucky had inevitably lost track of the passing of time and days before his phone buzzed to remind him that his rentals were due.

So it had been with a curse and the laziest swing of his legs off of the couch cushions that Bucky stood, stretching slowly, before crossing around the width of the couch and making his way down the hall. He had to get dressed in something moderately more sociably approachable than ratty flannel pyjama pants and a cut off tee shirt that… well, it had seen better days, that much was certain.

And a light jacket, of course, with a left-handed glove. Because after his last session with Sam, the slightest glint of silver often left him trembling.

It was almost embarrassing, really, how reduced he’d become to the sight of his— _the_ arm. But all the same he couldn’t bring himself to look at it. His session with Sam had been intended to deep into the harder and darker depths of what had happened in Russia, he knew that. And Bucky, for all he could muster in terms of cooperation despite his instinct to rebel, had done that. He’d allowed himself back into those dark winds and the bite of snowfall. He had allowed himself back into that vehicle, that convoy, that fire, that snow, that—

A dark crossed his vision, the world spun, and Bucky hit something hard.

Stop.

Clenching his chest with his rest hand, Bucky leaned against the wall. His throat was tight and his tongue dry. Beneath his palm and fingers, of which they were curled into the jacket, his heart was racing erratically. Licking his lips slowly, he willed himself to breathe deeply through his nose and out of his mouth, the stutter of his teeth against his bottom lip making him wince as he nicked across the same roughened edge he so often chewed.

He swallowed thickly, and the fuzziness of his vision threatened to close further in. He closed his eyes, but that didn’t help, and his head pounded. Snow and fire and metal and red flashed behind his lids and Bucky choked, his chest caving as he tried to breathe.

_Get it together, get it together, breathe, breathe, just like Sam taught you, just… stop, stop, please, stop it, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—fuck it’s cold, it’s cold, oh god, it’s so cold, please I want to go home I want to go homeIwanttogohomeIwanttogo—_

It took a while, but Bucky managed to open his eyes. The walls seemed to stretch up for miles and miles and something rough was pressed to his cheek. Groaning, he turned his head slowly, seeing the expanse of brown thistles and dirt. The carpet. He was lying down. His lips and the side of his cheek were wet and he sighed, slowly inching himself up into a sitting position against the wall.

He’d passed out again.

Unfortunate as it was, this was not the first occurrence; Bucky often suffered severely from anxiety due to his…well, homecoming, as he referred to it. And sometimes that anxiety led to panic attacks, which led to fainting in the most unprecedented of places: the kitchen, the grocery aisle at the store, even in the middle of the street one day during an off-season use of fireworks down the street when he was coming home from his evening walk.

Mopping the side of his face with his sleeve, Bucky stared up at the wall for a long while, counting the streaks in the paint, the dirt along the baseboard, the bit of cobwebs that had collected in the upper corner where two walls met the ceiling. Sometimes this was all he needed: to sit and just analyze the simpler things. On occasion, when he happened upon bugs or small animals, he’d commentate their lives in his head, giving them stories and ambitions and dreams and moments of failure.

It helped to keep from analyzing his _own_ failures.

He couldn’t really remember getting up, washing his face, or leaving his apartment with the movies in a plastic bag. But Bucky had come to accept that sometimes he did things automatically while thinking of other things entirely. He had to give himself credit; he may not always remember doing things, but at least they were mundane, human things. He could still care for himself physically even if, psychologically, he were off in a different place all together. That was a good thing to him. Sort of.

So it was without much surprise when he came to his feet walking along the side walk, curving around the corner and making his way the some five or six blocks before he would have to cross the street to Miss Gwen’s shop.

Thinking about her put had Bucky into a mood. When last he saw Miss Gwen, she had been dressed in a modest pantsuit sans blazer with fiery red lipstick and light eye makeup, her blond hair cascading in curls around her face and her shoulders. There was something seemingly off about her—like she was too smart, too above working in a porn store, and yet she did anyway. Perhaps it was a means of income while she pursued other ambitions? Perhaps she maintained appearances for her own benefit? Perhaps it was none of Bucky’s business.

That didn’t stop him from wondering, though.

Checking the street, Bucky made his way across the two lanes for traffic as leaves rustled on the wind and scattered along around his boots. Keeping his head down for a moment, Bucky marched up the stairs to her shop before slipping inside the door. The small bell above his head gave a gentle chime, alerting the store of a customer’s presence. Behind the counter was, as always, Miss Gwen—dressed lavishly in jeans, a blouse, a scarf, and her hair in a bun, the makeup as light and lips as red as ever. Across the counter, leaning on the wood and glass and sharing a laugh, was a slim and beautifully decorated red head with startling green eyes. Something about her seemed familiar, but Bucky put it from his mind.

Miss Gwen’s eyes arced across the room before she met Bucky’s, and her smile widened, showing white teeth. “Well, well, if it isn’t my unabashedly frequent customer. James, right?”

Bucky gave a half-hearted and rather forced smile, and nodded once.

“Rental’s up, yeah? Renewing again?”

“Just one.” His voice sounded rugged, and his throat gave a squeeze. The red head was watching him carefully, her lips painted to match. He placed the bag on the counter, and Miss Gwen removed the films.

“I can’t imagine you’re renewing _The Longest Yard_ ,” across the counter, the red head’s eyes flashed, “so you’re holding onto _Tactical Insertion_?”

Bucky’s face flamed lightly, and he became painfully aware that the red head was gazing into his soul. “Y-yeah. Stuff came up and I never got around to it, but I wanted to see it.”

Miss Gwen smiled, tapping on the keyboard of her register before scanning the films. “Why don’t you go pick out another one, on me? You being my favorite customer and all.”

“From what I’ve seen, I’m you’re only customer?” The words left Bucky’s curved mouth before he could stop them, and Miss Gwen’s eyes sparkled.

“Still my favorite. Better you than the dust bunnies in the back room. I’m serious. Go get another.” Bucky rolled his eyes and obeyed, lumbering slowly and trying desperately to ignore the weight of the woman’s gaze on his back as he went. He made his way to the back wall where the titles lay, scanning them to see if he could recognize any others that belonged to Steve’s line of work. To his surprise—and subtle enjoyment—there were three; two of the films involved other men, and one involved a woman. She stood behind Steve—who was clad only in what looked like a black g-string and a blind fold—her arms looped around, hands splayed against his chest. Her face was obscured. But that red hair was unmistakable.

Turning his head slowly, Bucky peered over his shoulder. The red headed woman was still staring at him, this time with a smirk.

_Oh my god. Miss Gwen does have porn star friends._

In a voice smoother than velvet, the red head turned to speak to Miss Gwen. “Glad to hear you and Peter are doing well. But I should probably get going. Maria and I have a shoot later today and I’m meeting Steve for dinner.”

_Steve_.

Snatching up the film immediately, Bucky made his way leisurely back to the front. He missed whatever Miss Gwen’s response was, but when he slid the DVD across the counter to him, he caught the flash of a look she gave to the red head.

Beside him, the woman stepped close, peering at the cover. “Not my personal favorite, but Steve is a work of art.” She said, giving him a look before brushing him by. Bucky, out of instinct, went rigid, but he watched her go as she slipped out of the shop without another glance, disappearing down the road.

Breathing lightly, Bucky turned back to Miss Gwen. “Who was that?”

“That, sweetie,” she said with a smirk as she scanned the barcode, slipping the DVD into the bag, “is one hell of a woman.”


	7. Chapter 7

He had intended to watch _Tactical Insertion_ , but instead he grabbed _Under the Skin_ , and threw it into his player.

Kicking off his pants and his boots, Bucky crawled onto his bed as the film began. At first there was nothing but darkness, before the crack of a whip sounded, followed by an intake of breath. The camera focused in on a soft glow of candlelight, and another crack and hiss sounded. Beneath the flames, the title shimmered into existence before fading with smoke. Another crack and a soft moan that was undeniably Steve left Bucky trembling for a moment, and he knew he was in for a long night.

The camera panned along an expanse of skin that Bucky had come to recognize as Steve’s back and broad shoulders. Thin, darkening red welts were collecting in lines across his skin as the flash of a tailed whip kissed flesh in another snap, and Steve’s shoulders tightened—they were pulled, and Bucky realized as the camera panned out that his hands were bound behind his back, a black line of the g-string—lace, and more like a thong—curving along the edge of his hip. The camera panned further, showing Steve kneeling, thighs spread slightly, a cloth wrapped around his head and covering his eyes as a woman in black latex came into view.

She wore heels, giving her the advantage to tower over Steve—who looked so small and curled in compared to her empowered stance—her red hair twisted in curls around her face and shoulders. Fingerless gloves covered her hands as she transferred the whip back and forth left and right. Lips painted red as blood and eyes darkened with makeup, the woman smirked devilishly, before moving her arm in a fluidic motion, the whip cracking across Steve’s skin again.

The whimper that befell the blond’s lips was more delicious in sound than Bucky could have ever imagined. He’d become so accustomed to hearing grunts and sighs of pleasure and control, words of domination and possession, sometimes even subtle affection, that to hear whimpers and hisses of subordinate _pleasure_ was just… it was so new, so unexpected, and Bucky hardened faster than ever before.

“You’ve been naughty, Rogers,” oh, _God_ , that voice; even on film it was as sultry as it had been in the shop, and Bucky almost couldn’t even really believe that he’d been in the same room as this woman, felt her brush alongside him. He gave an involuntary but welcomed shiver as his right hand snaked down to his balls, cupping and rolling them slowly in his hand. At the woman’s feet— _motherfuck_ what was her name…N-nat—Natasha? Yes, the box said Natasha—Steve trembled and moaned, twisting his neck a little to try and angle his head to face her. But she moved, letting the tails of the whip slide along his skin, making him moan quietly. Bucky bit his lip, and Natasha stood in front of Steve.

“Do you know what I do with naughty boys?” Natasha mused, red lips curling into possibly the most perfect smirk Bucky had ever witnessed, and he sighed, slumping against the headboard as he tightened his fingers around the curve of his balls. He chewed his lip, moaning softly, and Natasha turned the handle of the whip, tucking it under Steve’s chin to lift his head. His lips were slightly reddened, smeared from lipstick it seemed. There was a soft scruffiness along his jawline that Bucky took to be a soft shadow of facial hair.

_He looks good with scruff_.

“What. Do. I. Do. Rogers?”

At her feet, Steve whimpered, licking his lips. No doubt he was tasting the smear of lipstick. Bucky wondered what he thought of it—was it sweet, or tart? Did it even have a flavor? He had half a mind and an entire wash of desire to taste it off of Steve’s tongue and see if he could make out a flavor.

“You punish them.” Steve groaned out, and Bucky’s breath hitched. Wrecked, no doubt he’d already been teased to the brink of oblivion before the cameras even began rolling.

“That’s right,” Natasha teased, skirting the handle along Steve’s throat before walking around him again, shaking the tails out before whipping her wrist low; the tails kissed along Steve’s thighs and ass cheeks, and his back arched as he cried out quietly.

In the quiet of his room, Bucky’s breath came in a hiss, and he clenched his own cheeks.

“Good, my pet,” Natasha chuckled, whipping Steve again, earning another cry, “make those pretty sounds for me.” She reared back some and whipped him again, harder this time, earning a louder cry of panicked pleasure as the welts began to raise slowly in Steve’s flesh. Either his skin was sensitive or she was going at him much harder than the camera showed; regardless, Bucky’s fingers coiled around the base of his cock, and he squeezed. He knew this would be like a repeat of _Longest Yard_ where he came in the first ten minutes of watching.

But this was different. There was something so much more _erotic_ about this; watching Natasha, fiery and clad in black latex, marring golden and perfect Steve with a tailed whip, seeing the clench of his thighs and the pull of his shoulders, the way he strained against the bindings around his wrist and tossed his head as if to throw the blindfold from his face. The line of sweat that was already creasing down his spine. The way her green eyes lit up like emeralds in a fire as she lined his skin again with fresh marks.

She did this for ten minutes, it seemed, until Steve’s back was a cacophony of red lines. She never broke the skin, never damaged him beyond welts, but there was something so painfully beautiful about the way she moved, the balanced weight to her motions and how fucking fluid she whipped him. Bucky could have sworn he even saw her move on her toes—in heels for fuck’s sake—turn and then lash him again, like she had a ribbon and she was moving into a twirl.

Steve continued to tighten and pull, but he never caved, and his voice never went above a quiet cry. He didn’t scream, he didn’t shout, he whimpered and he moaned and he fucking begged for more. Bucky, who was panting and sweating beneath his jacket, was pumping slowly on his cock, his toes curled into the discarded heap of blankets and sheets at the foot of his bed. And when she stopped, Bucky forced his hand to still, his cock aching and leaking already, and he took notice the full body tremor that Steve was experiencing.

Natasha walked, her heels clicking on what sounded like wood, as she tossed the whip aside. She reached for a candle, holding the glass jar it was encased in gingerly as she turned, making her way slowly back to where Steve was kneeling. Deftly, she set it on a side table that stood next to a large cushioned chair; in one motion she turned, stepping across the three feet before snaking her fingers into Steve’s hair. She pulled, and Steve gasped and moaned, shuffling his knees across the floor as Natasha pulled him toward the chair, before sitting in it.

Slowly, she tucked one leg over an arm, the other hooking over Steve’s shoulder as she drew him in with the press of her calf and heel against his back. He whimpered, and shuffled closer, leaning in slowly to press his lips to her inner thigh. With her left hand, she reached over and gripped the jar with the candle, her lips curling slowly as she drug her fingers through his hair again. The sweep was almost soft and endearing, and Steve’s lips slid along the latex to find the slit of the opening where Natasha’s cunt was exposed.

It had been years, Bucky the realized, since he’d last been with a woman, and Natasha’s sex was a sight to behold with the utmost respect. Unlike most porn stars, she was not shaven—though modestly trimmed, it seemed—and the curls were a shade darker than her hair. And he watched with a newfound fascination and a tighter grip on his cock as Steve nosed those curls first, before tracing kisses along the outer folds of her vulva, teasing slowly. In the chair, Natasha moaned softly, tilting her head back as her face relaxed.

He kissed along the edges of the latex, before skimming back over the expanse of skin and hair, before dragging his tongue along the length of her folds. When he flicked his tongue up over her clit, Bucky could make out a definite gleam of wetness, leading him to believe that, for all of her demeanor of power and control, Natasha was just as turned on with the whole of the situation as both Steve—in his lacey thong—and Bucky. She moaned, her eyes casting down as she pulled gently on his hair, bringing him closer.

“That’s it, Rogers,” she said, shifting her hips a little, rolling them into his lips and tongue as he flicked her clit with the tip once more. Bucky watched as he pumped his hand quickly as Natasha’s fingers retightened around the jar, and she lifted it slowly, bringing it over her leg and past Steve’s head. His heart pounded heavily in his chest as he gazed, a pressure building in his lower abdomen as she tilted the jar.

The sound Steve made was primal, a kind of pained animal turned ferociously aroused beast as the wax spilled past the rim and splattered along the welts across his back.


	8. Chapter 8

Natasha angled the jar again, spilling another steady stream of wax along Steve’s skin. Bucky curled his fingers tight, twisting his wrist as he jerked, watching with a kind of morbid amazement as the wax slithered down the crease between Steve’s shoulders before cooling, hardening some. Within seconds, between fresh wax and Steve’s twitching motions, the wax cracked, crumbling off in a few places.

Between her legs, Steve was panting and moaning, and Bucky so desperately wished the blind fold was not there; he wanted to see the look of Steve’s eyes, and whether the animalistic growls matched dilated pupils and feral glances. He wanted to see the beast that was bubbling beneath Steve’s skin with every pull of his taught shoulders. But he was left with sweat along Steve’s hairline, lips twisting into groans and sighs, teeth hooking into pink before the tongue darted out and swiped at Natasha’s cunt again.

Above him, Natasha was smirking, dribbling a little more wax along Steve’s back and shoulders, her eyes occasionally rolling back as Steve licked her. Her painted red lips rarely left their smirk formation, on occasion to part with a sigh or a soft moan. But she never made obvious her pleasure, only taking short moments to breathe and goad Steve further.

Unlike some pornos that Bucky had seen where there was white-washed lighting and silence save for moans and slapping of skin, this one was dark; candles littered the scene, and there were objects everywhere. From pieces of discarded furniture—such as the out of place upholstered chair against a black backdrop, and what appeared to be a futon bed on the floor in the corner—to piles of pillows, sheets, and a chest across the room; no doubt it contained other toys for the evening.

But the walls themselves were a sight, draped in velvet to cover windows, lined with masks and whips. The whole of the scene left Bucky shivering, before he glanced around his own room, wondering what similar décor he could muster for himself. He forced his attention to the screen, watching as Natasha poured the last of the wax along the back of Steve’s neck and spine as he cried into her inner thigh, panting heavily.

His gut gave a punch and Bucky squeezed the base of his cock, groaning softly. He was so close, so unfuckingbelievably close that it actually hurt. This, admittedly, was only the second film he’d watched in Steve’s repertoire—though, he supposed, he could count the preview snippets of the other fifteen films he found online during his searching—and yet he was completely and totally enraptured in the versatility that Steve possessed. On the one hand he’d been a dominant football captain, pounding one of his teammates against a bench until Brock had come with a shout of ecstasy.

And here, now, he was bound and forced between the thighs of a curvaceous woman with a smirk to make the devil run for his money. And the lighting, the mood, the very nature of this film was so different. Here, not everything was clearly seen; shadows were obstructive at times, and the angles were much rougher, more like capturing a forbidden intimacy than exposing every inch and line of the stars. This wasn’t a porno. This was a work of art.

_Steve is a work of art_. That was something Natasha had said.

Bucky couldn’t fathom how this film wasn’t among her favorites. Her clear confidence in the domination she displayed was uncanny, so perfect it made Bucky ache just to watch her. Her movements were fluid; she did not shake, she did not hesitate, she didn’t even move too fast or too arrogantly. She moved with _precision_ , like she’d done this all her life. Like there was never a moment in anything she did that wasn’t entirely on point.

Bucky only had a last moment to register he was coming when Natasha eased Steve back before bending forward—extremely flexible, he noted—leaning down to kiss Steve slowly. The way her red lips pressed to his, the curve of her jaw as she widened her mouth, no doubt taking his tongue between her teeth based on the groan that Steve gave a moment after. Bucky panted softly, slumping against the headboard as he watched, spent but still engulfed in the mood. What he would give to be in either of their positions.

Or between them. He could stand to be between them.

Natasha unhooked her legs from Steve’s shoulder and the arm of the chair, keeping them spread as she sat on the edge. Her hands guided Steve’s shoulders before one slid back into his hair, bringing him to her latex covered stomach. He kissed up, his nose and lips brushing the underside of her left breast before licking a trail to where her nipple was pressing to the material. Natasha’s fingers tightened slowly and she moaned quietly, gently dragging her nails down his wax and welt mottled back. Steve hissed, biting her nipple.

There was something…beautiful about the way they moved together, Bucky came to understand. This was not the precise movements of porn stars working in an industry and being good at what they did. This was the careful practice of two people who knew each other more intimately than Bucky had previously imagined. The way Steve angled his head with the tightening of Natasha’s fingers, the careful caress of her lips against his, the way his shoulders—previously taught and resisting—went lax under her touch.

This was not their first time together, cameras be damned.

Moaning softly, Bucky slumped further against his headboard, absent mindedly reaching for a pillow to slip under his hips. On screen, Natasha stood before pulling Steve to his feet as well, her fingers sliding down his sweat slicked front to undo a small knot that was holding the lace in place around his hips and thighs. It came undone easily, revealing his cock—swollen and red-tipped with arousal—with a heavy band below his balls, pressing them up against his shaft.

Oh, God.

Guiding him once more, Natasha brought him to the mattress on the floor. She unbound his wrists, lying him down on his back before re-securing them above his head to a ring bolted into the wall. Slowly, she planted kisses along his skin as she shimmied her way down, the latex rubbing and squeaking quietly as she moved. Her red lips dragged along Steve’s cock, teeth scraping against the precum-glistening head, earning a hiss and a small whine of pleasure from Steve’s throat.

Gently, Natasha eased a pillow beneath Steve’s hips, and Bucky watched as the camera angled, showing the length of his inner thighs before panning to his cock. The view snaked its way down, before revealing a small jewel nestled between Steve’s cheeks; Bucky, with a gasp and a tightening of his own muscles at the sight, whimpered quietly.

Quickly, she shifted to the edge of the bed, here hands sliding down Steve’s legs before spreading them. She deftly maneuvered one ankle to the bottom corner of the mattress, looping his foot through a ring of black, before tightly Velcro-ing his ankle down. Steve whined, dragging his opposite foot away, but she caught him, and she restrained him easily.

“Natalia—” Natalia? Was that a preferred name? Or was Natasha a nickname?

“Don’t speak, Rogers, lest you make me gag you as well.” Bucky trembled, moving his hand down to tease himself again.

“Natalia, please, it hurts…” oh, God, Steve begging was a thing Bucky didn’t realize he’d needed until that moment, and he shivered again, rubbing his fingers over his hole, before dragging them back up to stroke his cock slowly.

“Steven,” Natasha’s voice was curt, but the smirk on her lips had softened. Licking his lips, Bucky marveled at how the camera soaked them in, capturing them as co-stars, friends, and lovers at once. The reverence in Natasha’s eyes as she shifted and leaned over to kiss him was startling and, for a brief moment, Bucky wondered if this was less a porn film and more a home video. “Trust me.”

The camera flicked, and it showed Steve’s face; the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, the red stain of his lips from Natasha’s lipstick, the way the blindfold clung to the sides of his head from sweat. But all the while, there was a set of determination in his jaw, the way he breathed slowly and tilted his head, as if to look at her.

“I do.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Miss Gwen’s Taboo Mystique, this is Gwen, how may I help you?”

“Miss Gwen? I-it’s James.” He could almost hear the smile in her voice.

“James. How are you enjoying those films?” Bucky felt his face flush three shades of crimson, but he breathed slowly.

“They’re… they’re good. _Under the Skin_ is… it’s something, I will say that.” There was a mild chatter on the other end of the line, but Bucky wrote it off as another customer or two. Beneath his shirt, his heart was racing.

“Personally that’s one of my favorites. I think it’s some of Natasha and Steve’s best work yet, really. They’re chemistry is intoxicating.” Bucky allowed a small smile. Perhaps in a different circumstance where Gwen wasn’t a porn store owner and Bucky wasn’t a regular customer they might’ve been unusual friends.

“The woman in the store the other day—that was Natasha, right? Natasha Romanoff?” He asked slowly, and he could hear a slow intake of breath, followed by a muffled _I’ll be right back_. There was silence as footsteps echoed through the line, and a door was shut. No doubt Miss Gwen had gone somewhere a little more private.

“Yes, it was. Natasha’s a good and old friend of mine who’d decided to pay a visit. Why do you ask?” Her tone felt heavy, and Bucky knew he had to tread this lightly if he wanted to continue being a customer. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to be a porn star, let alone friends with a porn star, or how difficult that made anything normal. But he had to believe that sometimes Miss Gwen was asked this question, and he could only fathom a guess as to how often she had to give her answer.

“I… I’m not sure how to answer without being vague, or without sounding extremely creepy. And, I promise, I try really hard not to be creepy.” If nothing his response earned a quiet laugh from Miss Gwen, and there was a moment of silence; whether she was thinking or observing customers, he couldn’t be certain. But the unease in the base of his throat wasn’t lessening in the slightest.

“Can’t imagine why you would worry about being creepy, James.”

“Being a vet sometimes does that to you.” They came unannounced, and he heard Miss Gwen sigh.

“I thought as much. Let me take a moment to say I appreciate your service. My daddy was a police officer before he died and, I know that’s not quite the same as going overseas and defending the country, I try to let those who perform a service know I value them,” Bucky felt a smile come across his face. Maybe their circumstance didn’t have to prevent a friendship after all.

“Thank you, Miss Gwen.”

“James, you can leave off the Miss. It’s more for the store. Now, about Natasha, what did you need?” Bucky inhaled slowly.

“You know my current and past rentals have revolved around Steve Rogers’ work—”

“Is this the part where you’re afraid of sounding creepy?”

“—Yeah. Pretty much. I don’t want nothing from him or Natasha or anyone. I was just… wondering more than anything if there was a way to contact him? To let him know that, as unconventional as his work may be in regards of therapeutics, it has helped, strangely… that still sounds extremely creepy.”

Across the line, Gwen laughed again. It was rich, though throaty and almost hoarse sounding. He wondered if she screamed or cried often as a child, as anyone he’d known with a husky voice like that had done so in youth. “I don’t personally know Steve’s contact information, but Natasha would. However, if you can believe it based on _Under the Skin_ , she is extremely protective of her friendship with Steve. Cracking through her won’t be easy. Though she seemed to like you enough from the other day…”

There was another moment of silence, and Bucky felt entirely embarrassed. What was he doing with himself? It had been two weeks since he’d first found himself in Miss Gwen’s shop staring at a wall of films before randomly choosing Steve’s. And here he was, unshowered, having not eaten since God knew when, jerked out of his mind from watching Natasha completely and irrevocably _undo_ Steve fucking Rogers in one of the hottest displays of domination he’d seen yet, and now asking for the contact information of porn stars.

“James, I’m sure you’re real sweet, but—”

“I won’t ask again, Gwen. More than anything, I wanted to thank him. For something I can’t even really explain. I just know that… I’m still struggling from coming home. And it’s not even what he does but the way he is. This all sounds incredibly stupid and I am sorry for bothering you today, I’m sure you have other customers or responsibilities far more important than me. But in some strange and unconventional way, he is making my life, everything I have here at home and away from… from everything else… he’s made it better.”

Gwen sighed again, and Bucky felt a bigger fool than he thought possible. He was putting himself on the line for the sake of a porn star he didn’t know, and would probably never meet, and for what? To say _Thank you for existing and making erotica, you’ve changed my life_. It sounded so stupid, even in his own mind, and Bucky just caved on himself, burying his face into his hand as he held his cell phone to his ear.

Foolish. Utterly foolish. He really needed help, he knew it. Thinking that jerking off to someone else having sex would actually make him feel better. But when he narrowed it down like that, it seemed so… empty. There was more to it, he knew, but he couldn’t put it into words the way he needed.

And after a moment, he felt breathless.

“I can’t make promises. And, I swear to God, if you turn out to be some whack-job who ends up stalking my friends, I will personally deliver the swiftest kick I can to your crotch. They’re good people, honest people, and they deserve just as much privacy and peace as the next person. Just because they work in an industry that sells their naked bodies by the millionth-copy doesn’t mean they’re any less than you or me, understood?”

“Perfectly, ma’am.” There was that smile in her voice again.

“Good. I’d like to believe you’re a good man but I honestly don’t know you that well. But I know people who can find out. Come in to the shop tomorrow, James, say… four.”

“I don’t know what to say, Gwen. Thank you…?”

“That’ll do.” And she hung up.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Bucky decided to spend an extra ten minutes in the shower scrubbing himself down twice. Just to be sure.

He did his best to ignore the water rushing down the metal arm, or the way he had to feel those silver tipped fingers rubbing along his scalp as he washed his hair three times over—not showering for extended periods of time left him feeling filthy, and his hair often took the brunt of his muck. He did his best to focus, instead, on what lay before him in the day: he was going to meet Gwen at the shop. He was going to meet people who could connect him, hopefully, to Steve.

Still, he felt entirely stupid for the whole thing. And the more he dwelled on his conversation with Gwen from the day before, the more foolish he felt about his word choice, the fact that he asked her specifically about Natasha and getting in touch with a porn star. He figured, by now, he could have probably asked if there was some P.O. box he could send a letter to, or a fan site or something to share his strange feelings within. Something far less than… whatever it was, really, that he was about to embark on.

_Ignore that now, Barnes,_ he told himself as he finally ran a small amount of conditioner through the ends of his hair—he’d need a trim soon, they were starting to split— _you’ve got enough going on in your head and Gwen is doing you a solid. The least you can do is be polite and presentable and understand that if something goes wrong it’s probably because you fucked up_. The idea made his stomach churn, but Bucky breathed and grabbed the soap instead.

Quarter to three and Bucky had only just stepped out of the shower, toweling his hair and letting the left arm hang, motionless, at his side. He’d half to wear a long sleeve or a coat, something to give him an excuse to wear gloves. Whoever he was meeting, he didn’t want questions raised, the arm wasn’t him, wasn’t part of his desire to get in touch with Steve—and, after finishing _Under the Skin_ , he had half a mind to send one to Natasha as well, but… no, that was stupid.

What was his desire, really? What was he hoping for by sending some sort of email or letter to a porn star who had no idea he existed? Who had no idea of the impact his actions of fucking other men had made on Bucky’s life? _When it’s put that way it sounds so fucking god awful. How do I make it not-god-awful?_

Chewing his lip, Bucky tossed the towel onto his bed as he padded over to his dresser, pulling out a pair of pants before slipping into them. He buttoned them slowly, before rummaging through his shirts, keeping the left arm at his side as he moved folds of fabric back and forth with his right hand.

He frowned softly as he searched, hyper aware of the beads of water dripping off of the undried ends of his hair, the rolling down his spine, the weight of the metal appendage fixed to his shoulder, the fact that his fingers were sifting through one shirt after the next and he still wasn’t finding what he wanted why was this so fucking hard all he wanted was a fucking shirt what the ever actual—

When his fist cracked against the bottom of the drawer, Bucky sighed.

There was too much on his mind, and he had an inclination that he should call Gwen and tell her he couldn’t make it. It wouldn’t do him good to be questioned, to freak out, to break something or hurt someone if his answers didn’t make them happy. And for what? A chance to talk to a total stranger with a fucking _beautiful_ body?

Really. What had he reduced himself to?

_What are you doing, Buck? Really, what are you doing? What are you hoping for?_

It took another ten minutes but Bucky was able to settle for a long sleeved sweater that covered the arm and the scar tissue that stretched down his side, across his back, and even up the side of his neck a little. For good measure, he threw a light coat over it and a glove onto his left hand, ignoring the notion that he was so wrapped up in covering the metal that he’d forgotten to put on underwear beneath his jeans.

Shoving his feet into his boots, Bucky sighed softly, fixing the weight of the chain of his dog tags before slipping them beneath his sweater. His hair was still damp, and he combed it out with the fingers of his right hand, before smoothing it back and tying it into a hair tie. It was short and stubby at the back of his head, but he didn’t care; he’d stopped caring about appearances a long time ago, but when he saw the scruff and beginnings of a beard in the mirror, he stripped his jacket and trimmed it down.

No sense in looking like a _total_ hobo.

But then he looked at himself with a trimmed down beard and wet hair and he grimaced. Pushing up the sleeve of his right arm, he cupped water from the faucet, wetting his scruff before dabbing shaving cream along his jaw. He made quick work of shaving, having preferred using a traditional straight razor from when he’d gone overseas where packing cartridges for plastic razors proved cumbersome.

He cleaned the blade slowly, admiring his freshly cleaned face before double-checking for any missed hairs. When he found none, he cleaned himself off before retying his hair, opting to put half of it up, and leaving the rest against the back of his neck. He slipped back into his coat after adjusting his sweater sleeve. Better. For the most part, anyway.

Leaving his bathroom, Bucky grabbed his keys before stepping out of his apartment. It was just after half past three, and he knew it would take him about ten or fifteen minutes to get to Gwen’s shop the moment after leaving the lobby. So he locked his door and made quick work of getting downstairs, ignoring the woman at the desk or the mention that he hadn’t checked his mail in a few days before slipping outside.

It was cool, surprisingly, for late summer. Or had it already become fall? Bucky wasn’t certain, and paid no further mind as he made his way down the street.

The walk was entirely uneventful. For four in the afternoon, there were very few cars and almost no children about, and Bucky crossed the street to Gwen’s shop without the usual two glances, as he knew there was no one to be wary of. In front of the shop were two cars—one he took to be Gwen’s, as it was always there. The other, black and sleek and very sporty, was new.

Slowly, Bucky made his way up the stairs, opening the door slowly. The bell above chimed quietly, and he blinked a few times to adjust his sight as he stepped across the threshold. Inside, the shop looked as ordinary as ever, and empty. Gwen was not at the counter like usual, and the door at the back—no doubt an office or something—was dark, and closed.

Frowning softly, Bucky glanced around before walking towards the counter. Unlike other small shops, there was no service bell to alert employees or owners, mostly because the entrance already had a bell. And if Gwen wasn’t in the main floor of the shop, then she would’ve been in the back. _She still would’ve heard the bell. Woman’s got ears of a hawk._

Leaning against the counter, Bucky chewed on his lip, tapping the gloved fingers against the wood surface. There was nothing, not even a rustle from the back of the shop. Bucky softened his breathing, concentrating for a moment, listening. It was unusually silent, more so than even he thought right; Gwen’s shop was never particularly packed or noisy, but it was never this quiet.

It reminded him of Russia again.

Chewing harder on his lip, Bucky straightened slowly, breathing quietly. There was a shift of a shadow just in the corner of his eye and side-stepped, turning to grab that which was moving through the air at him. The left hand curled around a wrist, dainty in sight but strong, and he came face to face with the red-headed beauty that was Natasha. She smirked, relaxing her hand to show an open palm.

“Clearly I should’ve spoken to get your attention.” She was not at all fazed that a hand, one no doubt stronger than necessary, was coiled around her wrist in a death lock.

“I don’t appreciate being snuck up upon, but I applaud your silent footing.” He said, slowly letting go of her hand. Thanks to the glove, he hadn’t marked her skin in any way, but he still caught the nonchalant shake and twist she gave it. All the while, her eyes didn’t leave his.

“So. You’re James.”

“Natasha.”

“Did Gwen tell you that or did you read the DVD box?” Bucky smiled softly.

“Both. You’re quite the dominatrix I might add. The wax; that was something special.”

“I could try it on you sometime if you’d like. I’ve learned that it’s quite a favorite.”

“I doubt you’d actually jump at the opportunity to sleep with a stranger. That doesn’t seem like your style.” Natasha chuckled.

“Sleep with you? No, I’d just tie you up and fuck with you. My skill set is selective, after all.” Bucky couldn’t help the small twist of a smile that pulled at his lips, and he relaxed slowly. He shoved the gloved hand into his coat pocket, extending his right hand to her.

“Pleasure to officially meet you.” Natasha eyed his hand for a moment before smiling, shaking it slowly.

“Pleasure’s all mine, big guy. Gwen tells me Stevie’s changed your life.” Bucky chortled.

“Is that all she said?” Natasha’s eyes sparkled dangerously, and Bucky felt a mix of excitement and fear all at once. A woman to put fear in him was a woman to respect unconditionally.

“Give or take a few details, yes. You’ll have to know there’s a certain code of conduct we like to operate by. We don’t fuck fans, and fans don’t fuck with us. If you have something to say to Steve, you can say it to me.” Bucky couldn’t be surprised; he knew there were certain things that people of their industry had to follow by. But whether it was a company policy or their own personal creed, he couldn’t be certain.

“Would you believe me if I said I honestly don’t know what to say to him?” Natasha’s eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms over her chest. Defensive, or possibly defiant. Either way, it was not a welcoming presence, and Bucky understood that he had to tread carefully.

“You must have an idea. Something important, whether subjective or not, is on your mind and you want to share it with him. What is it, big guy? Did watching his cock fill the assholes of over a dozen men give you some inclination that you have a chance with him? Because you’d be wrong—”

“That’s not it.”

“—No? Then what? Steve is a good guy, deserving respect and privacy. And I’m sure you’re a real catch yourself but let’s face it you’ve only rented Steve’s work in the last two weeks, your first reaction was to grab me when I approached you, and now you’re telling me that you have something to say to Steve but you won’t tell me. You’re not exactly presenting your case in the best light, James.”

Bucky allowed a small, weak smile, knowing she had him cornered this way. “It’s not easy to explain. Honestly I don’t even have it figured out myself. But I… wanted one opportunity to thank him, I suppose, for existing. Told Gwen it wasn’t conventional but something about his films, about _him_ … it’s helped.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed further. “Helped?”

“It’s hard to explain.” Natasha was silent for a moment before uncrossing her arms, placing her hands on her hips.

“Show me.” Bucky frowned.

“Show you?”

“You’re hiding something. What is it?” Bucky’s heart lodged in his throat. Fuck, this woman.

“I don’t understand—”

“Your dog tags are pressing to the front of your sweater; you grabbed my arm before I could touch you even though I hadn’t made a sound. You have _that look_ that says ‘I can kill you and make it look like an accident’, and you’re hiding your left hand in your pocket. Show me.”

“I can’t.” For the first time, Bucky’s throat tightened, and his voice felt weak.

“Then I can’t help you.”

“Natasha—”

“Don’t you Natasha me. Steve is a good friend of mine, and I won’t have anyone—” and with that, Natasha stopped talking. She didn’t even seem to look like she was seeing Bucky anymore. She frowned, and sighed, pursing her lips a little before relaxing slowly. Softly, she said, “Okay,” before looking up at Bucky again.

“Follow me.”


	11. Chapter 11

Of course Bucky had gone on high alert the moment Natasha started walking towards the back door of the shop. He couldn’t avoid it; several years of training and military service would do that to a man, and this was no exception. Natasha was a hard woman to read, and even harder to prepare for. She was a woman who clearly knew what she was capable of, and she was ready and willing to do anything to defend those she permitted close to her.

And at her sudden allowance, Bucky felt afraid.

Still, he followed her, wishing he’d at least kept one of his typical knives on hand. Knives weren’t exactly a favorite during his time overseas, but they sure helped whether in a pinch or during a need for discretion. He’d have to find his at some point; it was around the apartment, somewhere. There’d been a time he’d had an episode and threw it so hard at the wall with his left hand that it had gone through the plaster and embedded somewhere inside.

Keeping his steps light and quiet, Bucky followed Natasha; he gave her a once over, looking for any obvious or discreet signs of weaponry on hand. But beneath her jeans, rounded shoes that easily could’ve been boots or slip-ons, button up and black blazer, Bucky noticed nothing unusual. Still, he kept himself guarded, watching her carefully as she opened the door.

She didn’t hold it for him, instead striding through with her head held high. Bucky caught the frame with his right hand before slipping inside as well. If it came down to a tight situation, he was highly trained in hand-to-hand combat. All he needed was to assess the number of people coming for him, the surrounding objects, and who would be the greatest threat.

Something told him it would be Natasha.

The back room turned out to be a hallway, with several other doors lining the walls. One read office, which seemed straight enough. It was dark, though, and Natasha briskly walked past it, as well as two others doors—labeled storage and restroom. Squaring his shoulders a little, Bucky steadied his breathing, before pulling both hands free from pockets and other distractions. If he needed to fight, he needed to be ready, and not caught up in his jacket.

Natasha turned to a door on the right that was unmarked, and lit from the other side. She seemed to stop for a moment, before glancing at Bucky. Her eyes were hard, almost cold, but they did not seem hateful or angry. Merely cautious. He could understand that; if she and Steve were as close as she said they were, she was concerned for his safety and privacy. He’d been in that situation before.

But her caution only raised further questions about Steve.

Natasha sighed quietly, before knocking on the door; careful, steady raps, three in a row. Bucky waited for a second, listening as there was a low murmur of voices from the other side. The door clicked, unlocking, and Natasha turned back to face Bucky.

“Go in.” She said, standing aside, crossing her arms once more as she perched her watch to the right of the threshold. Bucky didn’t like it, it felt too much like being back overseas, like going to receive orders only meant for him. He didn’t like the urgency of control and secrecy, but his feet carried him, slowly but surely.

Before he could open the door, Natasha reached out and gripped his left arm. He froze, instincts kicking as the plates shifted, ready for combat. No doubt she felt them, even beneath the sleeves of his sweater and jacket. Her eyes did not leave his. “I’m putting a lot of faith that this goes well, Barnes,” when had she learned his last name? “Don’t make me regret it.”

“Understood.” He said, coolly, hoping to God she’d let him go before he pulled away himself.

She did.

Bucky steadied his breathing, turning towards the door before twisting the knob slowly, letting it swing open.

On the other side was a relatively bare room with a few boxes of DVDs and packaged toys. Save for a small side lamp on a table, it was dark, with two chairs facing one another in the center of the room. Bucky didn’t like it, and he felt his throat tightening as his left hand clenched slowly into a fist. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the soft clicking as the metal prepared itself.

For a moment there was nothing—no signs of imminent danger, no presences lurking in the shadow where the light did not reach. There was nothing. But Bucky knew better, and he stepped in with caution, allowing himself to see and hear while silencing his own breath and footsteps. He knew better than to approach a situation without caution; he knew better than to be arrogant.

Still it was all so strange; an entire set up of secrecy and interrogation. All he wanted was a fucking email address or a P.O. Box, anything that didn’t feel like he was meeting some president of a private company with operations so bloodied it may as well have been the mafia. Bucky inhaled slowly, quietly, trying to quell the racing of his heart as he approached one of the chairs.

He didn’t like the idea of sitting. It was vulnerable, weak, and left too many opportunities to be restrained. So he stood, placing his hand on the back of the chair instead. He looked around the room, taking in lasting details. The table could be knocked over for means of obstacles or defense. Boxes could be thrown. Chairs broken to pieces and used for self-defense and attack if necessary. The lighting was dim enough that he may not be able to get good details of faces, but it meant they wouldn’t easily see him, either.

Unfortunately, there were cameras in the front room, and Natasha had seen his face long enough to do a sketch if anything went sour.

_Good God, what is happening here? Did Gwen set me up for something? Am I being detained? What the fuck—_

“At ease, soldier,” the voice cut through him like a warm knife in butter, and Bucky’s whole defense protocol crumbled at once. It had been one thing to hear that sound on film, where editing came into play and not much was said. But to hear it, within ten feet, clear as a bell and softer than ever, was something he couldn’t describe.

Bucky turned, seeing Steve Rogers emerging from the door he’d entered in. He wore form-fitting jeans, nice shoes, a button up and a light grey cardigan. His hair was darker now than it had been in any of the films Bucky had watched, and where clean-shaved or stubble had been was the beginnings of a full beard. Still, he was sharp-dressed with kind blue eyes, and he sat in the chair opposite of the one Bucky’s hand was threatening to break.

“Sit, please,” he said, a small smile on his face as the light caught the glow of his skin. Bucky remained frozen for a moment, simply staring. “I’m sorry for the display out there, and all of this. Personally I would’ve settled for a cup of coffee at the café down on fourth, but Natasha likes to act as a sort of body-guard at times.”

He was so fucking calm and sweet it made Bucky ache.

Still, he obeyed, rounding the chair for a moment before sitting slowly.

Across from him, Steve shifted in his seat, leaning forward a little before extending his hand. “I’m Steve.”

Bucky eyed his hand before reaching out with his right, shaking. “Bucky.”

“Ah, so it’s Bucky? Is that a nickname?” Bucky swallowed.

“Middle name’s Buchanan. James Buchanan Barnes. I prefer Bucky. Less formal. Less—” Steve’s eyes glimmered, knowing.

“Military. I know.” Bucky frowned.

“How—”

“I wasn’t kidding when I said Natasha likes to pretend she’s a body guard. She insisted on ear pieces. I heard everything you said to one another in the front of the store,” suddenly it made sense, the shift in Natasha’s demeanor, how she didn’t even seem to see him for a few moments. She was listening. To whom, Steve? “Like I said, _I_ would have preferred a more casual setting. Natasha would hear none of it.”

“She’s a remarkable woman, then.” Steve smiled brightly, and Bucky melted on the inside.

“And a friend. Who’s known me for a very long time, for better or for worse.” Steve’s smile was soft, unwavering, and it reached his eyes in sincerity. Bucky had heard over and over than Steve was good and kind and genuine, but he hadn’t imagined the description to be so fucking spot on.

“So why the secrecy? There must be something more than her wanting to screen potential crazies and protect you.” Steve chuckled quietly, glancing towards the doorway where Natasha was just outside.

“Well that is one reason; you can probably imagine my line of work putting me in a position to receive some rather… unwanted attention from fans. Forgive me, but I’ve had my share of men and women wanting to throw themselves at my mercy and, after seeing mine and Natasha’s work, wanting to put me at _their_ mercy.”

“Are there other reasons?” Steve’s eyes came back to Bucky’s, and they were unusually guarded for someone so bright and chipper.

“Perhaps. But those are best left for another time, I think. You mentioned to Natasha you had something you wanted to say to me. What better way than to tell me in person, right?” Bucky nearly choked, blinking a few times. He couldn’t even put his fascination into a credible light for a letter, let alone spit the words out for the very man to hear. At this, his heart pounded a little harder, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“It’s—”

“Complicated?”

“More than I express.” Steve smiled, though this time his eyes remained dark.

“Bucky,” the way his name rolled off of Steve’s tongue felt like sin, “I get it. I do. I’ve been here before. On both sides of this conversation, even. I appreciate the fact that you find something endearing in my work. You’re not the first, so you don’t have to be embarrassed. I’m a pretty easy going guy, so you _can_ tell me.”

Bucky couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and he almost had half a mind to drop to his knees and spill every sinful thought that had ever crossed his mind about Steve since watching that first film. But he didn’t. He remained seated, though the world may have started to tilt, and he swallowed slowly.

“It’s not something that can be put into words, easily,” he said, looking away from Steve, “it’s a complicated mess that even I can’t fully figure out, but all I know is that I came home from overseas and I wasn’t me. I don’t know who or what ‘me’ is, but who I am right now isn’t that guy. But… I found myself in this shop two weeks ago today and when I went home, I started to feel… not like me, but okay.”

Steve’s eyes, Bucky noticed as he spoke, softened, in a kind of understanding that Bucky had never known from another person. His jaw clenched and set and he shifted again, resting his elbows on his knees to look at Bucky. This close, with the light casting a glow through his hair and on his face, Bucky had to remind himself to breathe.

“I’m glad in this unconventional way that I was able to help,” Steve allowed a smile, and Bucky found himself returning it with a flamed face, “and… y’know maybe it doesn’t have to be like that all the time. Maybe you’re not you now, and maybe you’ll never be. Being overseas does that to people. It changes you, sometimes not for the better at once. But… with time, and the right people, you’ll be okay.”

Bucky nodded slowly, unsure of what to say or do. His brain was a mess of adoration and panic and Steve’s face and eyes and smile and words, and he remained silent.

“Here,” Steve said, reaching a hand out, “let me see your phone.”

Bucky, against a better judgment in the back of his mind, obliged. Steve swiped the screen, tapping a few times on it before locking it and handing it back.


	12. Chapter 12

Bucky waited three days before looking at his phone to find that Steve had left his phone number under a single letter: _S_.

Not for any lack of interest in Steve or what had happened, but Bucky tried to wrap his head around the events, and some of the unspoken reasons behind Natasha’s interrogation and Steve’s sullen nature about Natasha’s choices. It was all so private and hush-hush that Bucky had to wonder if one or the both of them had done some form of military in the past to know such discretion. Unless, of course, they led uncanny lives in some sort of secret spy agency—

Well, _that_ sounded even more ridiculous.

Still, it took Bucky three days. Three full days before he could even look at his phone to see what Steve had done to it. And all that had changed was an additional contact filed under _S_ with a ten digit number. Steve’s area code wasn’t far off of Bucky’s, and he wondered just how close the blond—well, after seeing him, now-brunette—actually was to where Bucky lived in his apartment.

Or perhaps he was reading too strongly into it and Steve lived miles away with a different phone number to throw people off. That was a more logical approach.

Regardless of the reasons behind this and that, Bucky took three days processing everything before he even looked at his phone to find that Steve had left his phone number—well, _a_ phone number, whether or not it was truly Steve’s—despite the _S_ —remained to be seen. But Bucky had to be hopeful, in some small way or another. Because this was a big deal. And he had to be cool about it.

For a long while Bucky merely sat on his couch staring at the number on his screen, wondering somewhere in his mind if he should call or text; was Steve expecting him to get in contact; was there some sort of courtesy wait time before messaging or calling someone; what if there was no response, whether Steve was busy or it was a wrong number; how big of a fool would he end up feeling like if it _was_ a wrong number; how big of a fool would he end up feeling like if it _was_ Steve’s number; what if he ended up saying something stupid if he called; would it be better to call or to text—was texting impersonal or appropriate; if he texted, would it just be a casual ‘hey’ or a ‘hi’; should he add a smiley face?

He really needed to stop thinking so damn much.

Bucky damn near threw the thing out of frustration and excitement, before running his fingers through his hair. He needed a trim at some point, but he understood there were more pressing matters. The phone number of a porn star was potentially saved into his contacts and he was left, bewildered, thinking of the appropriate time, format, and content of his message to said porn star as if he were back in grade school.

_I am a grown ass man. I studied engineering and art in college before going to war. I can send a message to another grown ass man who studied art and… became quite a fantastic porn star. Right._

But he didn’t. Not at first, anyway. Instead, Bucky sighed heavily before setting his phone down on the cushion beside him. He dug his fingers through his hair again, resting his right elbow on his knee for a moment. This was ridiculous. It shouldn’t have been so hard or nerve wracking to send a fucking text message to another person, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

And why? Because he was embarrassed? Because this was Steve Rogers, gorgeous and tall and kind and artistic and talented as fuck both in bed and out, and he—Bucky Barnes—was a sad, anxiety-and-post-traumatic-stress-ridden fuck of a soldier? Because, if that was all there was to it, he really shouldn’t have had too much of a problem. He could go get a drink, chill the fuck out, and send a goddamn message.

Bucky realized after a moment that he was trembling, and he stilled himself, breathing slowly through his nose as Sam had taught him. Sam. Perhaps he should go see Sam again. Get some new advice on how to talk to and approach people. Because, clearly, his social and people skills had become rusty if he couldn’t even work up the nerve to talk to someone he was attracted to.

Swallowing thickly, Bucky stared at the carpet. _And there it is, your crippling denial and panic over this whole fucking mess: you wanna bone Steve Rogers._

This was absolutely ridiculous.

Snatching up his phone again, Bucky tapped angrily on his phone screen, opening the contacts pages once more before hovering the tip of his thumb over the little phone icon. He waited for just a moment, calming himself with a steady breath before pressing it, bringing the flat of his phone to his ear. He waited as silence commenced, followed by a dial tone. And with each ring, and pounding of his heart, Bucky’s thoughts were racing in two directions.

_Please, pick up. Please, don’t pick up._

_Please, pick up. Just let me leave a voicemail._

_I can do this. I can’t fucking do this._

“Hello?” Oh, God.

“Steve?”

“Bucky.” His face flamed and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

“Yeah.”

“I was wondering when you’d call. Took you long enough.” Oh, my _God_.

“Yeah, I got a bit caught up with some other things. Had to make sure your number was right and all.” Much to his delight and relief, Steve actually laughed on the other end.

“Wanted to make sure I was legit, soldier boy?” Something about that name sounded so wrong, yet so fucking right.

“Something like that,” Bucky said, chuckling quietly to himself, “you mentioned the other day that you would have preferred getting a cup of coffee. May I hold you to that?”

“Mmm, coffee with a military man I just met three days ago. Yeah, I think I can make time for that,” Bucky wasn’t sure if the pounding of his heart was embarrassment or excitement; either way he was grinning like a fool and trying very hard to sound cool, “what time would work best for you, soldier boy?”

“You’re the one with a busy work schedule, Mr. Rogers; you tell me and I’m there.”

“So quick to please. I like that,” Bucky bit his cheek, “One thirty, on Saturday. It’ll be before my afternoon shoot, so you’ll have to excuse any and all attire. I promise, it’ll be public appropriate.”

“And here I was hoping for a special viewing.” Steve laughed, warm and rich and in a way that set Bucky’s skin on fire.

“Maybe next time, soldier boy. Alright, putting you on the list. I’ll see you then, Bucky.”

“See you Saturday, Steve.”

“Don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”


	13. Chapter 13

One thirty on the dot, Saturday afternoon at the café down the road, Bucky showed up. His hair was down, nearly dry after his shower from earlier that morning; he’d shaved again, though he’d contemplated letting the stubble thicken. He wore a form fitting but comfortable sweater and a light coat, glove on the left hand, nice trousers—the nicest that he owned, anyway—and a not-as-beat-up pair of boots that had been hiding in the back of his closet. He didn’t, truly, have much in the way of clothing other than his uniform and a few tee shirts, pairs of jeans, and pyjama pants. But he made do with what he had.

But, if things went well and he saw Steve again after this, he knew he’d need to find some better clothes. And get his damn hair cut.

Slipping inside the shop, Bucky found it to be, surprisingly, empty. The space itself was open and well lit, with polished wood floors throughout; the walls were primarily painted with soft, warm gold or orange tones, with one feature wall in rustic brick by a bay window. Pieces of art were dotted about, and scattered bookshelves were placed in a few corners. Lounge chairs, sofas, and a few small tables littered the floor, and Bucky noticed Steve sitting in the back next to an open window with a pad of paper and a pencil in front of him.

Smiling, Bucky made his way over, taking in the details of the brunette as he approached; Steve was dressed modestly in a plain black suit with a white button up, a light petticoat of dark grey wool hanging off of the chair he was sitting in. Sleek black shoes adorned his feet, and he’d shaved his beard, leaving fresh, smooth skin. While more befitting the image Bucky was so used to, there was still something so drastically, and beautifully, different about the man sitting at the table than the one Bucky often watched on film.

Ten feet away and Steve raised his gaze, smiling warmly, “Right on time.”

Bucky smiled back, deciding to keep his own coat on for the time being as he sat. “Just as I promised.”

“That you did. How are you today, Bucky?” A question he was often asked whenever he visited Sam or his doctor, Bruce, but without the medical weight.

“I’m okay.” He said. He was honest, at least.

“Okay is better than nothing,” Steve said, setting his pencil down. The motion caught Bucky’s eye and he glanced at the turned page, seeing small doodles of skylines and city streets. Typical drawings when perched at a window facing a street. “Oh, pardon these; I like to draw on occasion, when the mood takes me.”

Bucky smiled, looking up at Steve. “I… took art in college.” Steve’s eyes glimmered.

“Really? Art is a broad subject; what was your favorite focus?”

“Painting, more than anything. I had to take sketching and modeling, though; I actually majored in automobile engineering, but in order to do and understand blueprints, my teacher required that we take art classes as well. Unlike most of my classmates, I actually enjoyed it and pursued it as a minor.” The smile on Steve’s face was bright, and it made Bucky feel warm.

“I majored in art in college,” Steve said, fiddling with the pencil against his sketchbook, “early on in my life I knew I wasn’t going to be very big on sports; I wasn’t always healthy so I couldn’t exactly keep up with the kids at recess or in gym. So, I drew instead, and drawing made me happy. Some kids practiced every day to be athletic stars, I practiced realism and cartoon-drawings, wrote comics about superheroes, things like that.”

At his mention of poor health in childhood, Bucky frowned a little, but took his approach gently, “You, unwell? The man with a shoulder to waist ratio to make Calvin Klein models weep with jealousy?” Steve laughed, throwing his head back a little. Bucky couldn’t help but stare at the line of his throat, the expanse of skin, the precise place where his Adam’s apple jutted a little.

“I wasn’t always like this,” he said after regaining himself, “just like anyone else, I had to work for it. I just had to work a little harder. Get these shitty lungs into shape long enough to let me run a few miles for cardio,” Steve’s smile remained, but he looked away, his gaze going distant for a moment, “I mean yeah it was hell but I am thankful for where I’m at now. Wouldn’t wanna go back to anything else.”

Something about that felt cold, and Bucky told himself that it was a topic better left for another day.

Before he could make a comment or change the subject, another man had walked by, dressed in black slacks, a white polo, and a black apron. “What would you fellas like to have today?” His voice was chipper, and sweet, and Bucky glanced at Steve with a sheepish smile.

“Would you believe me if I’ve said I’ve never actually been in here?” Steve grinned.

“I would, but it’s alright. I’ll just have a black coffee, please. Would you like the same, Bucky?”

“Sounds good to me.” Who was he to argue? Sure he’d had his rounds of teas and different coffees, but he wasn’t really interested in drinks at the present moment. Steve smiled, confirmed with the waiter, and sent him on his way.

“So, if you’ll permit me, how long have you been home?” Steve asked, flipping his sketchbook shut with the pencil still inside. Bucky felt his throat tighten and he shifted a little in his seat. Steve must have caught the motion, for he nearly tripped over himself to continue, “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s completely up to you. I just—”

“N-no, it’s fine,” Bucky said, smiling faintly, “Sam says I should try to get more comfortable with some of the details anyway.” Steve’s eyes narrowed, almost defensive. No… hurt? Impossible.

“Sam?” Curious.

“My therapist.” Steve relaxed. Relieved. _Really, now?_

“Ah. He says you should be more comfortable? Why’s that?”

“I’ve… been home for over a year.” Bucky said, blinking in astonishment as the truth of it came out. Sometimes it didn’t feel like he’d been home, safe and sound that long; not with the attacks he still had, the random bouts of aggression and frustration, the difficulty sleeping, the phantom tremors and cold that he often experienced, the metal arm—

“Wow. That’s wonderful, though. I.. I’ve had friends who’re in the military and, y’know, sometimes they’re quick and good in a pinch and it only takes a few months, and sometimes it takes longer than that. So, it’s okay.” Bucky smiled, though it felt forced.

“I just didn’t realize I’ve been home that long. Sometimes—”

“You still feel like you’re there,” Bucky glanced up at Steve, watching him closely, before nodding, “You still have issue sleeping?”

“On occasion, yes.” Okay, it was more than _on occasion_. It was almost nightly.

“Where do you normally sleep?” Bucky eyed him again.

“My bed. Sometimes the couch.” Steve smiled, knowing.

“Try sleeping on the floor. Hardwood, carpet, no matter. Don’t bother with a pillow, you can use a jacket or something less fluffy. Your bed, even the couch, it feels too soft, right? Like a giant marshmallow, and you’re gonna sink through the floor.”

_Or the snow_.

Bucky smiled, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. “Yeah, it does… thank you, I’ll keep that in mind next time I actually attempt to sleep.” Steve laughed, but his eyes were sad.

“You’re welcome, Buck.” So much for that lump, his heart had taken its place.

“Here’s your coffee, guys. If you need anything else, let me know,” the waiter said, and both Steve and Bucky gave a nod in thanks.

In silence, the two of them took small, quiet sips of their drinks; to Bucky, the coffee had a warm and rich flavor to it, but it was buried beneath the bitter taste that unsweetened coffee often possessed, regardless of its origin. But he fought the small grimace as he set it down, swallowing gently. At least it was hot. That much was a godsend.

After a moment, Bucky curled the fingers of his right hand around the mug, keeping the left down on his lap, and he spoke, “I have to ask you a question,” well, it was one of many, anyway, but it was a start.

Steve smiled. “Go ahead. Ask away.”

“What… got you into the porn industry to begin with? I mean, a degree in art, the talent you possess with your work, there had to be a reason other than being _really_ good at sex.” Steve laughed again, taking another drink of his coffee before setting it down. The smile never left his lips but, once again, Bucky noticed a certain cold darkness to his eyes.

“Money, mostly. You’d be amazed how much the sex industry pays since a lot of our work gets leaked onto the internet for free anyway. Well, the shittier work gets leaked there. Some of my work is reserved for hard copy or subscription-based websites only, but there’s only so much you can do with the internet, y’know? But, yeah, I… I hit a bit of a rough patch and I needed money. Nat was already in the business when I went to her—we’ve been friends for… God, years. So many years now—and she suggested it to me.”

“Natasha is quite an impressive woman,” Bucky mused, and Steve grinned.

“She’s twice as likely to lock you into a death grip as she is to kiss you. But I love her. I don’t know where or who I’d be without her,” Steve said smoothly, taking another drink before setting his cup aside. “She’s very much a Mother Hen to me, always has been, probably always will be, if you ask her. And, when I think about it, I can’t say I’d have it any other way. It’s just who she is, to protect those she cares for, even if that means sometimes putting herself on the line.”

“What do you mean by that?” Steve chuckled quietly.

“I mean… I, personally, can’t stand bullies. I don’t care where they’re from. If I see someone being picked on, harassed, bullied, beaten, I go in to protect them. Fists up and ready to fly. But Natasha… she works like a spider. You mess with her web and she’ll spin one all around you, reel you in, and fuck you up.” Bucky smiled. The more he learned, the more he found himself liking Natasha.

“Sounds like someone I wanna be on the good side of.” Steve smirked.

“Most definitely. You betray Nat’s trust, even a little, and you’ll never get it back.”

There was a moment of silence where they were just smiling, and drinking coffee, before Steve shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other under the table. “Okay, I want to ask _you_ a question, now.”

“Fire away.”

“You majored in automobile engineering and art. You could’ve become a mechanic, and artist, worked in a body shop, who knows. Why did you join the military?” Bucky looked away, thinking for a moment. There were so many reasons he joined: paying off school debts, a chance to get into the best shape of his life; doing a service for the country was kind of a bullshit excuse since, when it boiled down to all of it, he couldn’t give more than two shits for the States, but at least he gave those two.

“I wanted to do something in my life to be proud of. I was a good kid, good student and athlete, but I really hadn’t done anything. Didn’t have a clear direction, didn’t have a clue if I really wanted to work in a shop or be an artist. But I was good at taking direction, at executing orders. In sports, I was never really the _captain_ , but I was the second-in-command kind of guy; first pick on the team, trusted with secrecy for sake of advice, that kind of thing. I thought, maybe, the military could pay off the debts I’d accrued in school and help give me a direction.”

All the while he spoke, Steve was silent, watching him closely, listening intently. As if internally picking his answer apart and analyzing each piece of it. Bucky would have felt unnerved by anyone else staring so deeply at him, but he didn’t feel that way with Steve. He felt a sort of calm, as if this man—this near-stranger—was trying to pick him apart to better understand his life, his mold, and his insecurities.

“Do you think you got the direction you were hoping for?” Bucky laughed.

“Hell no. If anything, sometimes I think I aimed for two steps forward and got launched back ten.” If Steve had an opinion on this, he didn’t show it.

“Because you came home and you weren’t really you anymore.” Bucky’s throat tightened again, and the left hand curled into a fist under the table.

“Exactly. Because I came home, and the me I’ve always known on the inside wasn’t the only fucked up piece. People don’t tell you that you can sometimes come home broken in more ways than one, y’know? They don’t tell you that sometimes pieces get left behind, and yet they fully expect you to pick yourself up by the bootstraps and move the fuck on.”

Steve reached out, placing a warm hand on Bucky’s right wrist. Bucky looked down, aware that he was white-knuckling his cup; if it had been the left hand, it would’ve broken by now.

“I… I am so sorry, I don’t—”

“Hey,” Steve’s voice was impossibly soft, and painfully kind, “you’re okay. You’re here. You’re alright.” Bucky looked up at him, breathing slowly, before nodding.

“I try not to get like that. But then I just get going and it’s like a train rolling back into… places I don’t wanna be.” Steve smiled, keeping his hand on Bucky’s wrist for a long while.

“May be hard to believe, but I understand. Sometimes you get wrapped up in the past and it’s the most God awful thing that can happen, because it’s right there and it feels so real, and you don’t want it to be. You just have to remember that it’s not. You’re not there anymore. You’re beyond it, now. And you can only move forward.”

Bucky, foolish as he may have felt, believed him.


	14. Chapter 14

When Bucky woke up the next morning, he had a text from Steve.

_How you doing, soldier boy?_

The smile that stretched across his face was equal parts silly and enamored.

Rolling over slowly, Bucky reached across the floor where his phone was plugged into the outlet, before undoing the clip slowly. Sighing, he rolled onto his back, pushing his hair from his face before checking his other messages. There were none to be read, so he swiped back to the fresh thread with Steve, and began typing.

_Not too bad, all things considered. I took your advice and slept on the floor._

There were a few moments, before his phone vibrated softly in his hand.

_How’d you sleep? Presumably better than on a cushion? :)_

_Yeah, actually. :) thanks for the tip. I’ll be disposing of my bed on Monday._

_Oh, I wouldn’t suggest that just yet. You might need it someday. ;)_

This motherfucker.

Biting his lip gently, Bucky sat up slowly to lean against the wall of his bedroom, bringing his knees up against his chest as he typed. _Will I now? What detail of my future includes the use of a bed?_

There were a few moments of nothing, and Bucky wondered in panic if he’d said the wrong thing. Steve Rogers was a guy who was comfortable in his own skin, capable of doing just about anything and everything he wanted. And, from the few times they’d spoken, Bucky had gathered that Steve could be quite the flirt if the mood took him. But that didn’t mean he had to go crossing boundaries just because the guy was a porn star.

_You’re a smart guy, Barnes. You seem like the kind to go after what and who he wants. ;)_

Bucky smirked, before typing. _Who should I go after, then, Mr. Rogers?_

_The right partner._

And, much as Bucky would’ve preferred to send flirtatious messages to Steve for the remainder of his day, both he—and Steve, unsurprisingly—had busy schedules. Steve had back to back photo shoots to promote the film he was working on—though the actual detail of the film was still under wraps and, while Steve mentioned he couldn’t share specific details, he did promise that it would be something special and very much like _Under the Skin_.

To which Bucky merely sent a _Can’t wait ;)_ and left the rest of his thoughts to himself.

But, unlike Steve, Bucky’s one and only appointment for the day was with Sam; and it wasn’t that he wasn’t looking forward to spending time with Sam, being able to talk and share that while he’d still had a few episodes, he did manage to get some good sleep last night. But Sam’s company, friend he may be, was not like Steve or Natasha or Gwen’s company. There was a certain weight to Sam’s questions and the way he regarded Bucky with respect. At least, with Steve and the others, there was no medical perspective behind their words.

Regardless, Bucky pulled himself together, cleaned up, dressed, and went on his way to his appointment, arriving ten minutes early as if he often did.

Sam, to his surprise, was not busy with another client, and let him in almost immediately. When he wasn’t working during days as a therapist for soldiers coming home from war, he volunteered down at the shelter run by the Veterans Affairs, serving to work in small group therapy sessions. Bucky couldn’t imagine being a private therapist as well as moderator for a group session in the same day, but it made Sam happy, and that was important.

Stepping into the office, Bucky made his way over before sitting in his usual spot on the small sofa, taking up only one cushion, keeping his hands on his lap. As Sam mingled about and got himself a glass of water, Bucky looked down at his hands—one flesh, one metal. He’d decided to leave the glove behind today.

“How are you doing, Bucky?” There it was—that weight that was pressing to the base of Bucky’s throat and making it hard to breathe. It was difficult to answer this question with Sam, yet with Steve it came as naturally as blinking.

“I’m okay,” he said. _Okay is better than nothing_. “I actually got some sleep last night.”

“Did you now?” Sam said with a smile, sitting down across from Bucky. “Restful?”

“Yeah. Didn’t dream, didn’t wake up constantly. It was nice.” Waking up to a text from Steve was even better.

“Did you do anything different?”

“Yeah, I slept on the floor.” Sam gave him a credulous look, but it was followed with a smile.

“I’ll have to remember that for those at the shelter. Some of the regulars comment on not being able to sleep that well. Might be a good suggestion.” Bucky smiled faintly, looking back down at his hands for a moment. Well, his _hand_ , and then the _thing._

“Still having trouble with it?” Bucky swallowed slowly.

“Yeah. I wear a glove over it any time I go out. It’s whatever, really, and in the long run I’m thankful to have _something_ to use, but… couldn’t they have made it look normal?” Sam smiled sympathetically.

“Hard to say. As it is, what you have there is an impressive piece of work far above the standards that most of our veterans who need artificial limbs get.” Bucky didn’t feel any better about that, but he remained quiet.

Instead, he wiggled the fingers of the left hand, watching the light dance off of the silver. The flat of where his palm had once been, along with the back of the hand, were covered with a synthetic form of leather that registered most of the sensations the rest of his skin felt. The feel of skin against it wasn’t quite the same, but registering heat and the absence of was similar, as well as sharp objects. But as for the rest of the arm, where it was metal and hardwiring, he only felt pressure and weight. As if the whole of it was numbed; he could see himself touching the arm, but it wasn’t the same anymore.

He dragged his fingertips along the metal of the wrist, bending it to watch the plates shift and accommodate like a joint. The way the plates moved and bent served to keep fluidic motion as well as make the whole thing water proof; a necessity for showering, as Bucky often hated bathing. Whatever they’d done, however they’d managed this, they’d at least given Bucky the courtesy of easy handling.

If only it could be removed.

“Y’alright, man?” Bucky blinked a few times, sitting back a little.

“Yeah, just thinking about it. Some days I wish I could just… reach up and pop it off, as if it were just a piece of elaborate armor. But I know I can’t. In the explosion, my arm— _my real_ arm—was practically obliterated, and this—this _thing_ is literally _wired_ into me. I don’t remember the procedure or.. or anything, but I remember pain. I remember.. drilling and searing hot over the bone. Like some _Terminator_ shit but real.” His voice cracked and he sighed, closing his eyes as he breathed slowly.

“I ain’t justifying whatever they did. You know that. Not after everything you endured to come home. I know it ain’t easy walking and living with that in place of your arm; it doesn’t feel like you, and it’s a constant reminder. I get that, Bucky. But, all the same, there is a silver lining to it. Think of how you going about each day, think of all the things you do. Imagine all of that if you only had your one flesh arm. Would you be happier?”

“I feel like you’re guilt tripping me for hating something the enemy forced on me, and I don’t appreciate it.”

“I’m not trying to guilt trip you, Bucky.”

“Then what are you doing, Sam? I can’t accept it right now. I can’t. It’s not me; it’s not even from home. After that explosion and the fire and blood and snow, _they took me and did this_. And you’re saying I should find the good things about it.”

Sam was silent for a moment, before looking away. He took a deep breath and continued. “I’m not saying you should. What I’m trying to say is… seeing the good from it might help you later on. That’s all.”

Bucky, biting back tears, stood from the couch. “Are we done today?”

“That’s up to you.”

“I’ll see you next week.”

And with that, he left.


	15. Chapter 15

Two days since his ruined appointment with Sam, and three since he last saw Steve, Bucky opted to finish _Under the Skin_.

Because why the fuck not.

It wasn’t like he was resorting to jacking off every time he was in a foul mood—because, really, he wasn’t in a bad mood anymore; he was more bored than anything, and he knew that he needed to finish it and _Tactical Insertion_ before his rental was due. Gwen was a great woman, but he didn’t need to test her patience by holding onto the same films for weeks on end.

Besides, he wanted to see it to the end. He wanted to know to the extent Steve trusted Natasha and her antics. And he was honestly curious to see how far Steve was willing to be bent and manipulated before he cracked and begged.

There was a part of him, of course, deep down that felt a little sinister for watching—well, continuing to watch—Steve and Natasha’s work after having met them personally. He knew them to be good people, worthy of respect. To watch them in all manners of fucking was almost like invading their privacy and challenging that respect. But, all the same, it was porn, and Steve seemed comfortable. He knew how Bucky had come across him as an individual.

Well. As long as he kept his viewing to himself, Bucky couldn’t see a problem. It wasn’t like he was dragging Steve or Natasha in with him while he jacked off.

Migrating to his room, Bucky closed the door before leaning against it. He’d since abandoned the idea of sleeping in his room, so he opted to throw down the cheapest sheets possible, a thin blanket folded across the foot for precaution. A surplus of pillows were stacked against the headboard, a trashcan nearby with a bottle of lubricant and tissues on the side table. His windows were drawn shut to keep light and peeping individuals out.

He kept an air-fresher plugged into the wall—something he’d found in a box of things from when he’d originally moved back in a year ago after coming home. And it proved to be useful, and rather appreciated; after a while, the smell of sweat and cum hung heavy in the air, and sometimes—especially if Bucky wasn’t in the mood—it could be incredibly stifling.

Kicking out of his jeans and his jacket, Bucky pressed the play button on his player, turning on the television before propping himself onto his bed. He settled in against the pillows, sighing softly as the film started. The remote and his cellphone were on the expanse of mattress beside him, and he relaxed, rewatching the opening of candle light and Natasha whipping Steve’s back, leaving long, thin, deliberate lines across his skin.

The last time he’d seen Steve, the man was well dressed and preparing for a shoot that day. Bucky had wondered then, as he did now, what Steve was in for; would he serve a more dominant role, teasing and licking and fucking his counterpart into blissful submission as he’d done to Brock in _The Longest Yard_ , or would he serve a more passive and begging role as he did here?

Within the first ten minutes of Natasha whipping and talking down to Steve, Bucky was already hardening, and he curled his fingers slowly around the base of his cock, giving himself a few small tugs, rubbing circles just above his balls with his fingertips. He sighed quietly, shivering a little as he touched himself. On screen, Natasha was dragging Steve to the chair, getting the candle ready as she spread her legs for him.

Having known them, even a little, now made this all the more filthy for Bucky. Because he could watch, and observe their chemistry, and he knew now that Steve’s trust and faith in Natasha stemmed so far beyond just this act of sex. He wasn’t putting just his body into her hands; their entire relationship was underlying each touch and sound. And the more he witnessed, the more he observed from this new subjective standpoint, the more he began to witness little things.

Natasha’s character as a dominatrix meant that she had to be rather stand-off in her expression of pleasure. Steve was her toy to fuck and fuck with, and it was his duty to please her to any and every extent she demanded. But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t bring personal pleasures into this, such as the careful way that he swirled circles around her clit—less for the camera, more for her sake. And Natasha, wonderful actress that she was, could not hide every expression, even if the micro-ones might’ve been meant for Steve.

Watching her pour the wax down his spine sent fresh waves of pleasure rolling through Bucky’s skin. He had never really been one to consider pain a turn on, but he supposed it depended on the act and the person delivering said pain. The way Steve responded to it left him to ponder whether it was all for show, or if Steve Rogers did, indeed, have a masochistic side.

He was hard, and pumping slowly, by the time Natasha dragged him back across the floor before binding him to the wall and bed. Shifting and bringing his feet up, Bucky reached over to grab the bottle of lube, squeezing a small amount onto his fingers. He smeared it gently, biting his lip as he curled the left hand around the base of his cock, bringing his right down to tease his hole.

_Find a positive use for it. Find something that makes it okay… I really don’t trust this metal abomination with my manhood, but fuck it, it_ is _better than not having two hands at all_. _Ugh, fuck my life._

Bringing his attention back to the screen, Bucky managed to catch Steve begging— _Natalia, please, it hurts_ —and he moaned softly, letting his head thunk against the headboard behind him. Readjusting his grip, he stroked slowly, moaning quietly as the sensations of the synthetic material of the left palm slid along his cock. It was different jacking off with the metal hand instead of his right; though little difference in skill or rhythm—thank God for being ambidextrous—the sensation was completely wild and so not what Bucky was often used to. There was no warmth, no callused texture. Just… synthetic fiber and cold metal.

Closing his eyes, he found it wasn’t so bad.

_Steven, trust me._

_I do._

Bucky opened his eyes to watch as Natasha ducked her head down, giving his cock one long, slow lick from balls to tip. Beneath her, Steve squirmed in pleasure, sighing softly as his hands and toes clenched and unclenched. Between kisses and bites, Natasha licked and sucked softly on Steve’s cock, earning quiet and desperate moans from the blond’s lips. At one point her hand slid down between his thighs, fingers disappearing as she pressed the jewel, wiggling it deeper.

To which Steve’s spine arched and his lips made the perfect _oh_ , his cry of pleasure strangled, trembling off into stuttered gasps and whimpers.

Stroking slowly, Bucky teased a finger against his asshole, slipping it inside slowly. He moaned quietly, curling and easing it deeper before working into a slow, smooth rhythm that matched the motions of Natasha’s hand between Steve’s thighs. Swallowing slowly, he let his eyes slip shut once more, listening to the gasps and moans of pleasure that emanated from Steve’s throat.

“That’s it, Steve, that’s it…” Natasha’s voice came, smooth and dripping like melted sugar.

“Natasha—” there was a sharp smack and a soft cry, and Bucky opened his eyes to see that Natasha was holding Steve’s jaw. She must have slapped him.

“I’m sorry, what did you call me?” Bucky frowned, enraptured as Steve struggled for breath. The camera angled, showing that Natasha was almost violently rutting her fingers against the jewel, no doubt pressing the plug firmly against Steve’s prostate.

“M- _Mistress_ …”

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

“That’s right… say it again.” Steve whimpered, muscles tightening with strain as his cock bobbed lightly against his hip.

“Mistress.”

_What I would give to hear him say Master._

“Again.” Still, constant as ever, Natasha was pressing that plug deeper and harder, and Steve cried out.

“ _Mistress!_ ”

“There’s a good boy,” Natasha said, nipping Steve’s bottom lip, her hand moving away from the jewel to give his cock a few short, hard tugs. Not intended to be gentle, or even satisfying, but Steve bucked and arched, crying out in pleasure before whining in agony as she moved her hand away.

“Fuck, Na—Mistress, please… please it hurts, I—” Natasha gripped his cock again, painfully, for Steve jerked and cried out in something a little less than pleasurably.

“If I want you to beg for release, I’ll ask you to do it, _boy_. Until then, you will be silent, and you will get was I deem you deserve.” Oh, God, the authority alone that was rolling off of Natasha’s tongue sent jolts through Bucky’s nerves, lighting his skin up as he fingered himself, stroking harder on his cock.

It was devilish to be this turned on watching two people going at it, one at the complete mercy of the other. But all the same, Bucky felt a certain closeness; the fact that Steve so willingly and faithfully put himself into Natasha’s hands—even literally—and trusted that no matter how hard she went at him she would never hurt him beyond repair was amazing. There was a definite fire in Steve’s soul that Bucky envied, because he couldn’t imagine trusting someone to that degree.

Not yet, anyway.

Slowly, Bucky eased in a second finger, panting softly, as Natasha resumed her teasing, licking and biting and kissing along Steve’s skin. On occasion she would play with his nipples, rolling the buds between her fingers before bending down to swipe her tongue back and forth over them once they’d hardened. Steve strained and squirmed, but save a few soft whimpers and grunts, he made no other sound.

Shifting a little, Bucky moaned quietly, gently scissoring himself as he stroked. He felt close already, the tightening and pressure of his abdomen serving as the only indication that his orgasm was imminent. Biting his lip, he anchored himself, watching the screen with stinging eyes as he jacked and fingered, hoping to get himself off at a good point where—

_Vvvvvt, vvvvvt, vvvvvt—_

_For fuck’s sake—_

He really should have looked first. Muting the television, Bucky blindly wiped his hand on the sheet before grabbing his phone. He swiped to unlock it, hand still on his cock, as he brought the device to his ear.

“Hello?” His voice was heavy, gruff, pained with sexual frustration and most definitely irritated at the idea of being interrupted.

“Well, good afternoon to you, too, soldier boy.”

Oh, no. Oh, fuck, no.

“S-Steve! Shit, sorry, hi, uhm… w-what’s up?” Please, sound normal; please, sound normal; please, _say I sound normal._

“Not much, just finished up some errands, thought I’d see if you wanted another cup of coffee with me. You sound a bit tied up though, everything alright?” Bucky swallowed thickly, a jumble of curses in both English and Russian haphazardly running through his mind at a mile a minute.

“Y-yeah, everything’s—ah, great. Everything’s just great.” Silence. Bucky’s heart pounded.

“What are you watching?” It was condescending. It wasn’t even disturbed. Steve fucking Rogers was _teasing_ him with this question.

“I—pardon?”

“Which one are you watching?” Oh, fuck.

“I.. I have no idea what you’re—”

“James Buchanan Barnes, I work in the sex industry; I’ve become very familiar with any and all inclinations of arousal. You’re trying very hard to hide that _you’re_ hard; it’s failing. Which film are you watching?” The fucker was laughing. The fucking fucker was—

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“… _Under the Skin_.” Steve made an ‘ooh’ sound, chuckling quietly on the other end.

“That’s a good one. Natasha’s a work of art.”

“She said the same for you when I first met her.”

“Not surprising. Should I let you go or have I ruined the mood?” Bucky looked down at his cock. If possible, he was even harder after being interrupted.

“Well…”

“Oh, I haven’t? There’s a plot twist. Tell you what, you go on and finish, clean up, and meet me at the café. I’m bored and I wanna discuss art.” Click. End call.

_Are you fucking real?_


	16. Chapter 16

“Bucky, you have yet to look me in the eye. You can’t be _that_ embarrassed.”

“Says the man who called when I was jerking off to his face.” Steve chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Would it make you feel better to know that I’m flattered?” Bucky growled, and Steve laughed a little harder.

True enough, Bucky had struggled to really look at Steve when he arrived that afternoon. He’d given a quick glance, a smile, and sat down, thankful that Steve had already ordered him a cup, and he’d all but buried himself inside of it. In truth he was amazed he even managed to get himself out of his apartment to come down here, for his embarrassment was that thick. It bubbled along his skin, and left his face feeling hot from the moment Steve called to now, almost an hour later.

“I’m not sure. I think that actually makes it worse.” Steve rolled his eyes, but his teasing smile never once faltered. _This asshole thinks he can call me up while I’m busy jacking to_ his _face, invite me to coffee, and now he continues to tease me for everything. Steve Rogers, I’m not sure whether to hit you or kiss you_.

“Buck, I promise, my calling you while you’re getting off to one of my films is _not_ the strangest thing that has ever happened. Yeah, maybe it’s a tad embarrassing, but I’m not offended. I asked you out for coffee, didn’t I?” Bucky peered over the rim of his cup before setting it down. It was a wonder his voice was so steady for how often his throat kept tightening and his breath kept failing.

“I’m pretty sure you only stuck with that plan so you could get a firsthand viewing of the shade of scarlet I have turned.” Steve’s smile deepened into a smirk, the corners of his eyes crinkling as a dangerous fire ignited in his irises. Deep within Bucky’s gut, he felt a twist of excitement, and he bit the inside of his cheek.

“Would blame me if I had? You blush quite nicely.” Bucky’s felt a horse kick against his heart and he was thankful that he didn’t have his cup to his lips; he would have surely spat out his coffee if he had. This man was utterly impossible; not only was his disgustingly beautiful and ridiculously kind, but his charm and wit were unfathomably endless, and with each comment Bucky felt more and more undone.

“Unbelievable. You take pride in being so shameless with your teasing.” Steve snorted, resting his fingertips along the rim of his mug.

“I take pride in having no shame, period. It’s part of my work, and it’s part of who I am. Does this bother you?”

“So long as one day I get you make you feel as much of a pool of flustered jelly as I feel now, no, I will not be bothered.” Steve grinned, taking another drink of his coffee before setting the mug back down onto a small napkin. In front of him was his sketchbook and pencil, both of which had not been touched since Bucky had sat down.

“I think you’ll have plenty of opportunities for that. Tell you what; I’ll cease my teasing—for now. I think if your face turns any redder you might burst a vein somewhere.” Bucky rolled his eyes, tossing his hand up in dramatic defeat. Steve, at this, threw his head back and laughed, clasping a hand across the left side of his chest. His own cheeks were pink by the time he finally calmed down.

“Do I amuse you?” Bucky quipped, raising an eyebrow at the brunette before him. Steve wiped at his eye, chuckling lightly as he breathed.

“Well, yeah, but something about that whole motion was just adorably ridiculous.” _This fucking man._

“You wanted to talk art?” Bucky needed to change the subject. Any more on his newfound shade of flustered or how he was ‘adorably ridiculous’ and he would have a heart attack from all of his feelings. Steve must have noticed this, for he eyed Bucky slowly before smiling, nodding once.

“More or less. My errands were tedious and not nearly as fun as the last twenty minutes have been, and I wanted a chance to get to know you more. When I said I wanted to discuss art, it was more of a last-minute excuse before hanging up on you. Face it, if I’d said I wanted you to join me for coffee so I could tease you and see you blush, you wouldn’t have arrived.”

“Your track record of ‘ceasing your teasing’ has lasted a whole whopping thirty seconds. Is that a new record, Steve?” Snorting softly, Steve leaned back in his chair and laughed.

“Must be. You’re just… something else.” Something in his tone warmed Bucky’s skin and he smiled, looking down at his empty mug for a moment.

Third meeting and he wasn’t sure if this was just Steve’s nature or if he was blatantly flirting. His comments screamed _yes, he is deliberately making you blush and flirting with you_ , but Bucky was still hesitant. Steve was a good man, kind and virtuous as he’d been told; he was not ashamed of his sexuality or his sexual behavior, he knew himself in and out and he was very bold in everything he did. And the more Bucky learned and spoke with him, the more he understood that Steve’s sense of humor was quick, unabashed, and _very_ snarky.

Of course he didn’t want to write off Steve’s advances merely based on his work and his open personality; a part of Bucky wanted to believe in the idea that Steve found him charming, and that he wanted to pursue a better relationship beyond _the porn star and the ex-soldier who jacks to his films_ , but he still felt cautious. There was a part of Steve that Bucky didn’t know, but had only seen in the darkness of his eyes on the rarest of moments. And it was during those moments, and the times when Steve seemed entirely elsewhere, that gave him pause.

He would take it one step at a time; Bucky would hope for the best, and be ready for the worst.

“Okay,” Bucky said after the waiter had come and gone with refilling their mugs, “you wanted to get to know me. Will my face turning six new shades of red reveal some unknown truth, or shall we do this the old fashion way where you ask me something and I ask you something? Blushing entirely dependent on the nature of the question.”

Steve watched him and smiled brightly, licking his lips slowly. Bucky followed the line his tongue made, before looking up in time to avoid Steve catching him. “I suppose that’s fair. Hm. Well, we’ve already established that we each went to college. You went to war. I work in the sex industry. Honestly, the nature of my questions depends on what you’re comfortable telling me.”

“I guess you’ll have to find out?” Bucky said with a smile. Steve smiled back, but regarded him with compassion.

“Well, I’m not real thrilled with the idea of scaring you off with the wrong question. There are several things I could ask about, for instance, your service, but I know that that’s not always the easiest discussion to have.” Bucky made an _ah_ sound, looking away. Of course Steve would be curious about his time overseas, what he’d done, all that he’d seen. He was probably curious about what it had been that ruined Bucky so when coming home.

There was a clench in his throat, and Bucky forced himself to breathe.

“We’ll take it one question at a time,” Bucky said softly, amazed at his own calm, “if there’s one we don’t wanna answer, we’ll just say ‘pass’, or something.” Steve smiled, and nodded once. “Okay, ask away.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Oh, well now you’ve done it, Rogers, you’re gonna trigger the worst episode ever with a question like that,” Steve laughed, and Bucky found himself laughing right along as well. Between all the blushing and back and forth, his cheeks ached, but he found that he didn’t mind in the slightest.

“I knew it was gonna be too personal.” Steve smiled warmly, staring at Bucky with oceanic blue eyes, and Bucky swallowed thickly. “But, honestly, what is it?”

“Red. And black, but black isn’t really a color. It’s a shade.” Steve smirked.

“Good. See, we are discussing art.”

“Smartass. What’s yours?”

“Blue.”

“Was that before or after seeing your eyes in the mirror?” Steve quirked and eyebrow and smirked.

“Look at you, soldier boy. Did you rub a lamp and wish for that charm?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say _lamp_.”

_Oh, my God. He’s blushing. I’ve made him blush. Fucking success._

“Why, Mr. Rogers! I do believe you’re blushing!”

“Fuck you, Bucky.” Steve was laughing.

“Wouldn’t you like to.” He meant it as a joke. But the look that Steve gave him then—amidst the upturned mouth and quiet chuckling—was not kind or flirtatious. It was primal. It was definitive in its desire, and it set Bucky’s soul ablaze beneath his skin. In one moment his eyes had darkened, as if his pupils had blown wide enough to erase all trace of color.

Bucky blinked, and, just like that, it was gone, and Steve was light and air and all smiles.

“Alright, your turn to ask a question.” How could he, then, when he was breathless from being ravenously eye-fucked by a porn star.

“If you could’ve studied anything else in college, what would it have been?”

Across from him, Steve mused over the question in silence, looking away for a long moment. Bucky took the opportunity to take in little details—how his long eyelashes seemed perfect for his almond shaped eyes, the clean cut of his hair and trimmed sideburns, the light shadow that crept along his throat and jaw. Bucky watched Steve swallow, and his Adam’s apple bobbed lightly. Deep within him, he wanted to lean forward, and drag his teeth along—

“I don’t know,” he said, looking back up at Bucky, “I can’t imagine myself doing anything other than art. Sketches in graphite or charcoal, or full paintings, I can’t imagine doing _anything_ other than that. Some people have multiple passions and things that they love in their lives, and mine is art. I don’t think I would have studied anything else, but a part of me wishes that I would’ve taken the time to pick up music. I would’ve loved to learn the guitar or piano.”

“It’s not too late for that. You’re young. It’s not like music has an age cap to it.” Steve smiled.

“With my schedule, I don’t know. Trying to fit in lessons and practice time—”

“You never know until you try.” Steve met his eyes, staring deeply for a moment before nodding. Bucky’s cheeks warmed, and he brought the corner of his mouth up somewhat.

“I’ll think about it. Definitely. Alright. What would you have done if not having gone into the military?”

“Oh,” Bucky said, smiling faintly as he brought his hand up to his coffee mug, “honestly?” He glanced at Steve, and the brunette nodded. “I might’ve taken up dancing.”

“Dancing?” Steve’s eyebrows shot up, genuinely surprised. Bucky smiled, and nodded.

“Yeah. When I was in high school and college, I loved dancing. Swing, tango, ballroom, didn’t matter. Being able to feel the music was important to me. I loved watching ballet but it was too rigorous for me, even if the ladies had been a catch. But… yeah, I loved swing dancing. I remember this one year when I was in college we had a big festival for dance, and one of the weeks was all about dance from nineteen-hundred to nineteen-fifty, so of course swing was _absolutely huge_. And there was this competition for the best couple. And I had this partner—amazing woman, Connie—and we practiced and practiced and practiced this five minute routine. And for the performance we dressed up and went all out—she had her hair all curled and pinned up and I was in a three piece suit with my hair slicked back. And we were the best fucking dancers there.”

Steve was smiling, enthralled. “Did you win?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, laughing to himself, lost in the memory, “got a photo taken and put into the graduation slideshow, shared a five hundred dollar prize, and these cute and cheesy little medals that had tap and ballet shoes embossed on them. I don’t know what happened to Connie after that. She transferred after that year—she was a year younger, and had finished her associates or something. Sweet woman.”

“Maybe you can teach me.” Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“To what, dance?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“I’d be teaching you all the backwards steps. And, who knows, I could fuck up.”

“I doubt you could fuck up even if you tried. Teach me, both lead and follow. We can switch leads.” Bucky chuckled.

“Steve Rogers, you are one hell of a guy.”

“So you’ll teach me?” Bucky smirked.

“Yeah, you persistent punk. I might be rusty—it’s been a while. But I can teach you.”


	17. Chapter 17

“You know, for a man who fucks as vigorously as you do, you have terrible balance.”

Steve had helped with the cost of renting the small dance studio that was just across from the café—not that Bucky needed the assistance with the cost with his pension from his service, but the thought was sweet—and they’d been there for over an hour, doing light warm-ups and stretches before doing basic steps. Buck had done his best to keep his comments to himself, but Steve’s coordination, despite his repertoire of positions and thrusting and this and that, was lacking.

“I’m doing better than I was half an hour ago, give me that at least,” Steve whined. Though they’d only done basic steps in swing, sweat had already begun clinging along the front and back of Steve’s shirt. Bucky smiled at his counterpart; they were still on footwork, and hadn’t even begun really incorporating even the simplest of tricks or additional moves. This was still side-side-back-step.

“Marginally,” Bucky said. They hadn’t even added music, yet. Bucky was still counting for them.

“Damn, Barnes, you’re ruthless,” Steve commented, eyeing Bucky for a moment with a smile. They were each dressed in sweats, but where Steve had a tight-fitting tee shirt, Bucky work a light hooded sweatshirt and his glove, his hair pulled back into a ponytail. If Steve had any sort of comment with his attire, he didn’t bother voicing it.

“Soldier, remember?” Bucky grinned, and Steve let out a quiet laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, alright. Let’s go again.”

And they did. Bucky reminded Steve of the basic steps, both for leading and following, before taking his hands in his own. Not that Bucky had expected less, but Steve’s large hands were warm and smooth—well, at least his left was, which Bucky held in his right. With the glove over the metal left hand, he couldn’t feel Steve’s other hand.

With time, Steve did get better. Bucky had to change his approach and make some of the terminology more familiar for Steve to become acquainted with, but they were able to make it work. _Nah, see, when you move like this it’s—it’s like when you’ve gotta move your partner on set, keep them open for the camera to get that shot, that_ perfect _shot. Only, here, you’re perfecting the_ move _itself, understand? Yeah, just like that, but fluid—you’re doing the work but it’s like walking on air; completely effortless._

The more Bucky instructed, the more his Brooklyn accent thickened.

Amazingly, Steve kept his sarcastic comments to a minimum, and his concentration to the max. The sweat along his throat glistened as his shirt dampened—it was warm in the studio, and it didn’t help that it was during the day when the sun was shining through the large open windows. For late summer, early fall, whatever the fuck it was supposed to be, it was hot.

They took a break another half an hour in, and Bucky guzzled water greedily. His hoodie, though light, trapped in heat, and Bucky was a waterfall of sweat underneath it. But he couldn’t bring himself to remove it, even with the shirt he had beneath it. It was too soon, too heavy, too everything and he just—

“Hey?”

Bucky turned, looking over at Steve. “Yeah?”

“You alright?” He forced a smile, and nodded.

“Yeah. Thirsty’s all.” Steve smiled a little, and nodded as well.

There would come a day where Bucky would find something more than disdain with the metal appendage wired into his shoulder. Some day he would be able to walk comfortably and freely, without the weight of jackets in late summer or biting back indignant self-loathing whenever the cold of the arm pressed to his skin. Where he wouldn’t feel sick to his stomach every other night when he would toss and turn and feel the plates against his scarred left side, where he wouldn’t have flashes in the middle of the day or panic attacks whenever someone brushed him wrong.

There would come a day where Bucky Barnes would feel normal.

Without words, Bucky and Steve resumed their practice. Sometimes they fumbled, sometimes Steve lost his balance, and sometimes they got into it well enough that Bucky felt confident enough to add music. And, if possible, Steve did better when he had something to move to. It made sense; music had a rhythm, something to step in time to; it was better than counting repeatedly, anyway.

Two and a half hours in, when Steve was moving confidently, they began adding special moves; first, a basic spin that whirled Steve into a circle and left him laughing like a child. Bucky smiled, and they practiced it again, and again, until it became easy for Steve to mimic the steps and execute them without staring at the floor.

“Shall we pick up the footwork? We’ve been going about half-pace,” Steve eyed Bucky, cheeks faintly flushed from heat and work.

“Half-pace? Are you kidding?”

“Nope. C’mon, Mr. Rogers,” Bucky quipped with a smile, changing the song to a more appropriate tempo. When he looked back at Steve, the brunette’s eyes had widened, and he regarded Bucky with a careful look.

“Bucky—”

“Trust me.” He said, taking Steve’s hands. They swayed a little in preparation before Bucky took off, leading Steve through the footwork. Their feet were a frenzy of steps and kicks and Steve was laughing wildly as he tried to keep up. Bucky led him through the twist, looping Steve into a circle before bringing him back in close, continuing the basic steps as they moved across the studio floor.

After a minute or two, Steve brought his hands up to Bucky’s shoulders, laughing and trying to catch his breath as they slowed to a stop. “Oh, my God, I can’t—I can’t keep up with that. Holy shit.” He was laughing in between words, and Bucky couldn’t stop smiling.

“Can’t keep up with me? Damn, Rogers, you’re all look and no stamina.” He teased, going to the stereo to turn down the volume.

“Fuck you, Barnes.” Steve said, leaning against a mirror before drinking from his water bottle.

“You keep saying that, but I don’t see you doing anything. _Now_ you’re all talk and no game. Really, Rogers, you’re becoming quite a disappointment.”

Bucky Barnes was a man of many skills; he’d come to expect a great deal out of life, all things considered. He’d come to be prepared for many situations, knowing full well the weight of any and every outcome should the needs arise. But Bucky, for all of his knowledge, training, and trauma with the world, did not expect Steve Rogers to pin him against the mirrors of the studio and kiss him.

Because of the suddenness, Bucky’s first reaction was to reach up with his metal hand and grip Steve’s shoulder, pinching a pressure point, getting him to let go. Steve faltered back, eyes wide and incredibly apologetic. But as Bucky processed what had happened, the feel of Steve’s kiss, and the surge that had gone through him, he relaxed almost immediately, and pulled Steve back in before the man could speak.

Despite the aggressive nature of Bucky’s first touch on Steve, his second was softer, and the porn star accepted and returned his kiss with a quiet moan, bringing a hand up to cup the side of his jaw. It had been a long time since Bucky had kissed someone, but he found that it was like dancing, or riding a bike; the first two passes were rusty, rough, and a little too firm. But with a soft breath and a small smile, he tried again.

Steve, for everything and anything he might’ve been worth, was a patient and pliant partner. He let Bucky lead, keeping the hand on Bucky’s face gentle, affirming, and took whatever Bucky was willing to give. And he was kind, never pushing Bucky beyond any measure of comfort that was too much, letting Bucky breathe in between kisses when the spinning and the tightening in his throat made it hard to swallow the beating of his heart.

And after a while, Bucky merely rested his forehead against Steve’s, relishing in the warmth and softness of his hand.

“Still disappointed, soldier boy?” Bucky snorted softly, brushing his nose against Steve’s.

“Nah. But I think you can still do better.”


	18. Chapter 18

Bucky woke with a start when he heard his phone buzzing on the floor beside him—he still found it more comfortable to park his sleepy self at the foot of the bed instead of _on_ the bed, and he used a sweatshirt as a pillow. Groggily, he wiped the sleep from his eyes before grabbing his phone, swiping it with his right thumb before bringing it to his ear.

“Hello?” Low, gruff, clearly tired. Whoever was calling, he hoped, would have mercy with the truth that he’d just woken up.

“Hello, James.” Aww, shit.

“Natasha? How did you get my number?” He mumbled, rolling over onto his stomach, propping himself up onto his elbows. He wished he could’ve checked to see what time it was before he’d answered the call.

“Steve,” she said it so matter-of-fact that Bucky really couldn’t bring himself to be surprised, “I want you to meet me at the café around the corner from Gwen’s shop. We need to talk.”

She ended the call before Bucky could protest or ask why.

But he had an idea—his kiss, the time spent with Steve in the last week or so. No doubt Steve had imparted some of the details to her—he couldn’t blame Steve; he understood that they were close, and Steve was a grown man who could share whatever he wanted. Bucky had no (major) secrets. And, besides, he’d wanted to have a proper sit-down with Natasha and get a real chance to talk to her and get to know her. He owed her that much for so abruptly coming into her best friend’s life.

Sighing softly, Bucky unplugged his phone from its charger before bringing himself up to his knees. Slowly, he stretched his arms above his head, titling back a little as soft pops scattered down his spine and he groaned. Dropping his arms back to cradle his neck, he glanced out the window to see a faint trickle of light; judging by the hue of orange and pink just past his shades, he gathered it must’ve just been after sunrise.

Fucking Natasha.

Gathering himself to his feet, he crossed to his dresser to pull out a pair of jeans and a light sweater. He didn’t bother with anything fancy, and only scraped his fingers through his hair to straighten it out before pocketing his phone. He slipped his feet into his boots, lazily tying them before snatching his left-hand glove from the side table, slipping it onto the metal palm.

Under any other circumstance (involving Steve), he might’ve given more of a shit for his appearance. But Natasha said she wanted to meet at the café, which meant coffee. And until he got said coffee, he wasn’t going to care. Besides, he’d been warm while he slept, and the idea of bundling into a coat was far less appealing than anything else.

So he took up his wallet and his keys and made his way down after locking up, giving the woman at the desk a small nod and a smile as he stepped out, walking down the street to the café. It was brisk, and there was still a lingering bit of darkness way out into the western sky, but the birds were chipper and a few cars passed by here and there with prospective workers making their way.

Keeping to himself as he passed a few stragglers on the side walk, Bucky eyed both ends of the road before crossing towards the café. He could see off to the side in the alley where the café’s parking was located was the black sports car—possibly Natasha’s, as it had been there when last he saw her: the day he met Steve.

Climbing up to the front door, Bucky slipped inside, seeing the red headed woman sitting at the same table that he often shared with Steve. _What is it about that table?_ Natasha was stirring her spoon in a cup of something light-colored when he approached. She didn’t bother to lift her head.

“Sit.” She said, and he did.

“Any particular reason you woke me up at the crack-ass of too-early?” He said, catching the eye of the waiter—the same who’d always been working when he came in—raising a finger. The waiter nodded once, knowing that Bucky would only want a cup of black coffee, as he always got with Steve.

“Because I’m awake, and I have things to do later, and an income to gain. So we’ll have our chit-chat now.” She told him simply, pulling her spoon out before delicately scraping the back of the curve along the lip of her cup, before setting it down onto her napkin. She looked up at him with those startling emerald eyes—lined faintly in black, lashes long and thick, but these were the only noticeable signs of makeup. Her red hair, often in curls, hung in thick, gentle waves around her face.

The waiter brought by Bucky’s cup and he mumbled a soft ‘thank you’, before bringing it to his lips to drink. It was hot, and the roast was perfect, and he sighed softly after drinking. Natasha was watching him closely, and it was causing a prickle of discomfort to creep along the back of his neck. He did his best to ignore it.

“Steve tells me you’re teaching him to dance.” She commented, taking a drink of her own coffee—with the lightness in color, she did dearly love her creamer. Bucky nodded once; there was no reason to hide or deny that fact. He was teaching Steve to dance. Steve had asked him to.

“He asked what I liked, and I said dancing. I told him about a time in college where a partner and I had won a competition for dancing, so he wanted me to teach him.” Bucky explained, shifting in his seat to be more comfortable. Natasha quirked an eyebrow, before sipping once more on her cup.

“I wasn’t aware dancing included kissing.” Ah, so Steve had told her. Bucky wondered what that conversation was like; was Steve cool about it, bringing it up casually? Did he feel flustered and nervous when he told Natasha? Or did he pull a total-teenage-frantic-explosion of words and excitement?

Somehow he could clearly picture the latter.

“We flirted, he instigated, I returned. Is that a problem?” Bucky’s heart was lodged in his throat, and Natasha eyed him so closely that he felt frozen. Judging by the pinch of the corner of her mouth, she hadn’t expected that answer. What had she expected then, that he would try to cover his tracks or hide the truth from her? He had no intention of this. He wanted to earn her trust, and the only way to accomplish that was to be honest.

Natasha sighed, looking away as she set her cup down onto the table. Bucky took a moment to drink her in, seeing the wheels in her head turning. She was so focused, so bent on Steve’s wellbeing that, had Bucky not shared a kiss with him a few days prior, he would have penned her protective nature on affection and love. Though, perhaps there was still affection and love, but platonically.

“James,” Natasha said slowly; she seemed so tired, as if she’d been through this before, had to deal with people who got close to her or Steve. He could see it in her eyes though her face was guarded; Natasha was a woman troubled by protecting those closest to her, but he doubted she would ever back down from doing it, “it—it’s not a problem, it’s Steve’s life and he will live it exactly how he pleases. I can’t stop him from doing anything—or anyone—and one of these days I’ll understand that. But can you understand why I have concern?”

“Honestly?” He inquired, and she waited. “No. I don’t. I haven’t… I don’t know everything about Steve. I don’t know everything about him. I know that you helped him into the industry, that he studied art in college, his favorite color is blue, he loves what he does and who he is, and he’s not afraid to be anything but himself. I don’t understand where your need to protect him comes from.”

Natasha pursed her lips. “It’s not my place, ultimately, to share things about Steve’s life. It’s his to tell, and not mine. But… more than anything I need to know I can trust you, that I can trust whatever happiness he finds in you. He’s radiant like the sun and just as deadly in his passions and aggression, but James—he still has a heart, and it’s just as easily broken as anyone else’s. He’s good and he’s strong and he’s wonderful, but he’s got his share of baggage like any other person. He needs someone who can accept that, and help him carry it when he needs. Because he will carry you and be with you ‘til the end of the line, but you’ve gotta be there for him, too.”

“Jesus, Natasha, we haven’t even established anything and you’re acting like I should be getting ready to marry him.” Natasha blinked and laughed quietly, dipping her head a little before pushing fingers through her hair.

“With how often he gushes about you, I have to wonder. All I am saying is that he is just like anyone else—human.”

“I know that, Nat… Honestly, I wonder half the time why he keeps calling me around, why he takes such a shine to me. I wasn’t lying when I said I just wanted to thank him for, well, _being_. I came home and I hadn’t the faintest idea of where to begin with myself and strange as it is, Steve just… was an angel. A beautiful, pornographic angel.”

At this, Natasha laughed; Bucky noted how pleasant she looked, laughing so easily at this. She looked beautiful.

“Tell me something,” she murmured, looking up at him after she recovered, “when you’re with him, what do you think? What do you feel?”

Bucky rolled her question around in his mind, thinking of the times he and Steve had spent time together, when they’d just texted one another. He knew when watching Steve’s films that he felt extremely aroused by the sight of him, the things he said and did, the way he fucked with such fervent passion that it was all Bucky could do to lay back and wonder what it’d be like to be fucked by Steve Rogers.

And then there were times, like when they would sit and drink coffee for an hour or more, and Bucky just felt relaxed. He felt like he was sitting down with an old friend he hadn’t seen in years, the conversations would roll so naturally. And Steve—God, _Steve_ —was such a warm light that Bucky couldn’t help but feel so settled and relaxed in his presence.

When they’d danced, Bucky had felt an old sense of pride—a kind of confident stirring within him from doing something he was so natural and good at; it was a passion of his, dancing, and when he felt that rhythm and got the opportunity to bring Steve around the floor like he’d done with Connie—though, admittedly, with slightly less grace as Steve tripped a few times and clung a little too tight (not that Bucky would have ever complained)—it was everything Bucky needed. It was freedom.

“I feel…home.” Bucky said softly, lost in the short moments he’d spent with Steve against the great backdrop of his life. Even with the haggard four years that ended with a soul-obliterating tragedy, Bucky found home in Steve Rogers.

“Home,” Natasha repeated. “How do you mean?”

“Safe. Familiar. At peace. _Happy_ ,” he chuckled quietly, looking down at his coffee, blinking rapidly before taking a breath, “there’s so much to know and learn and tell, so much that has yet to be known between the two of us, and all I can think is _he is home_. He doesn’t look at me like a broken toy, he looks at me knowing I have my past, and he understands that I will share it when the time is right. When he asks me how I’m doing, it’s not with some sort unconscious tone of caution—he’s not asking to know whether or not I’m about to break, he’s asking like I’ve already broken and he wants to help me mend.”

“He doesn’t treat you like a soldier come back from war, but a man come home.”

Bucky looked up at her, and he nodded once. “Yes.”

Natasha smiled softly, glancing across the table. Her eyes came upon Bucky’s hands, each clasped around his cup. “When will you tell him?”

“Tell him what?”

She eyed his gloved hand, and Bucky withdrew it just a little. But he stopped, clenching his jaw, fighting against every urge to retreat and hide and snap and tell her it was none of her business. But that was shame talking, and he wanted so desperately to be _done_ with being ashamed. He hated the arm, this was no secret. He hated the arm because it wasn’t his, it didn’t belong on him; his arm was taken and he was _forced into this one_ , but… damn it all, it had become a part of him.

“I don’t know,” he began, “I… I haven’t decided.”

“What are you afraid of?” She mused; she wasn’t pushing, merely voicing a thought, “Are you afraid he’ll reject it? Reject _you_ for it?”

“It’s complicated.” Bucky said flatly, staring down at leather-clad fingers. He twitched again. “It’s not… it’s not like it’s scarred, or anything. It’s… it’s not even mine. How can I ask him to see and accept something I can’t even get used to?”

Natasha’s smile unnerved him, but he realized it wasn’t malicious or cruel—it was a smile to say _You silly boy._

“Try it sometime. He might surprise you.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***WARNING***  
> This chapter delves deeply into Bucky's time in captivity, and thus bears extremely graphic content with regard to the modification of his arm. Reader's discretion is advised.

Two-thousand-eight. Second Chechen War.

Bucky had curled into the snow, a grieving, sobbing, dazed mess of blood and fire and fear; he had hoped to burrow deep enough and let the fresh snow cover him, blanket him, and let him sleep. The night sky was glowing orange and ash and snow were hardly distinguishable, and with fire in the left half of his body and his arm brutally mangled and gone, Bucky wanted nothing more than to die.

Gunfire and explosions rung out around him and he stifled his agony into snow, breathing in cold and wet and choking on it, wanting it to fill his lungs and quiet him like an icy lullaby. In his time of chill and darkness, Bucky had thought of many things. Things that reminded him of home; he thought of dancing with Connie, practicing on a canvas with fresh oils, tinkering in the shop on campus when a new batch of scraps came in, kissing pretty women and imagining that life could not be more beautiful.

He opened his eyes, blinking hot tears and cold snow as a shadow covered the orange and red of the skyline. A rugged voice spoke in thick, fast Russian— _this one breathes; take him_ —, and hands hooked into the straps of his uniform, pulling. His blooded stump of an arm scraped over a rock buried under soft snow, and Bucky screamed.

 

* * *

 

Two-thousand-eight. It… it was still two-thousand-eight.

He’d been kept in a dim, concrete cell for who knew how long. It was cold, damp, smelling vaguely of iron and muck and Bucky tried so hard not to think of how many people had been left to die here before him.

His whole left side was a mess of agony and healing scar-tissue. The burns and ragged cuts had burrowed deep, and they webbed like spider legs all over his skin. His calf wasn’t too bad; the skin felt snug but not tight, and had healed the fastest. His thigh itched and flaked, and every move caused the healing skin to pull and he often felt fearful it would rip open anew. His ribs were a mess of steel-cut claw lines, four from his hip to his nipple.

Of course, his shoulder and missing arm were the worst.

More claw-like marks raced over his shoulder, webbing up into smaller lines over his collarbone and up the side of his neck. There was one that ran from his hip, around to his back and up into his hairline on his neck, stung like a molten river. Where his arm once hung was a splintered and still pulverized mess of flesh, tendon, and muscle. It had been tightly wrapped, though not changed in some time, and with the heat Bucky felt against the top of his side and armpit, he feared it had become infected.

Bucky spent most of his time lying on a cot that creaked every time he shifted, and smelled of sweat and other putrid things. More than once he’d rolled over and spit bile onto the floor—he was rarely fed, perhaps once a day, and it was meager at best. He kept quiet, as his first few hours—or nights; the passing of time was unknown to Bucky in the near-darkness—only proved to earn him angry shouts in Russian, and a brutal kick to the head that had knocked him unconscious for an indeterminate amount of time.

He wanted to go home. It was cold, and he felt sick. And he wanted to go home.

 

* * *

 

When Bucky had gone to Russia, and gotten tangled into the Chechen War, it had been May in two-thousand-seven. When his convoy was destroyed, it was October of two-thousand-eight. It had been cold, dark, and horrid the entire time.

At some point he’d been taken from his musty, moldy, concrete cell, dumped into a lukewarm bath and scrubbed. His hair had grown, hanging in front of his eyes, a heavy stubble that could not seem to will itself into a full bear clinging to his jaw, throat, and around his lips. The hands washing him took no care to be gentle along his still-healing scars and burns, and he lashed out when rough hands grabbed the stump, hurtling his fist against a face as he howled in pain. It was infected, and it hurt like hell.

More hands had tightened around him, holding his throat and shoulders as the bandage was peeled away. Cold, clotted skin came away with it and Bucky wailed, thrashing in the water as some sort of burning concoction was placed and rubbed against it. Air became scarce and Bucky’s thrashing lessened until darkness closed around his eyes and he wheezed. Пожалуйста, he begged. Стоп…

Figures pulled him from the bath, his fingers and lips tingling, vision slowly coming back as he was laid down. His head lolled back and forth as he struggled to breathe. Large hand grabbed his shoulder and the remains of his arm, pulling it from his side and angling it away from him. He opened his eyes, blinking; in the dimness he saw a flash of silver and teeth and pressure went to the ragged end of his bone and cut.

Bucky screamed again, and earned another knock to the skull.

 

* * *

 

They gave him two meager meals a day, and made sure his arm was bandaged properly and cleaned.

With the jagged end of the bone removed, the mottled mess of flesh and muscle could be more properly tended to. Bucky couldn’t stop shaking from the pain, even long after it had occurred. The fingers of his right hand were constantly twitching, and Bucky made stuttered whimpers every time he was forced to move even the slightest bit.

Even with food and more attentive care to his once-arm, Bucky felt blistered, yet he shivered with chill; the dampness of his cell had left him with a stifling cold, and his head often pounded when he sniffled too deeply or coughed too harshly. There were nights when he’d start to dose off to sleep, only to suffer an onslaught of fire and blood and the weight of the bone-saw against his arm, and he’d thrash, screaming as his arm flared in pain and screaming as his own agony echoed throughout the concrete walls.

He wanted to go home; back to his mother, back to his campus, back to Connie even though he had no idea what had become of her after his junior year in college. He wanted to go back to his dog, Captain, to the friends he’d made in the shop; he wanted to be back where the sun was warm and the fields were only pelted in rain, not snow or sleet or cold or wet like Russia. He wanted to go home, he wanted to go home, please _let me go home, let me go home, let me go home and die_.

He wanted to die.

_Please, just kill me. Please, just drop me in water and hold me there. Shove me under a blanket and stifle me until I can’t breathe. Put a bullet in my head. Cut my throat. Run me through. Gun me down with a firing squad. Just let me sleep at last._

 

* * *

 

He overheard, many days and nights and cutting and scraping of dead skin and nerve-endings later, that it was April, and the war was over.

It was two-thousand-nine.

 

* * *

 

A man had come, short and stout he was, with large wire-rimmed circle glasses and a white coat over his shoulders. His accent was heavy—not Russian or German, but a neighboring one—and he spoke of a project. A project that would utilize what was left of him by making him better. _The procedure has already started_ , he’d said quietly in English. Bucky didn’t look at him, didn’t make a sound, and didn’t move. His arm and shoulder felt heavy and cold beside him.

Other figures came and pulled him to his feet; he didn’t even protest at the handling of his mutilated shoulder, though he did give a groan of discomfort. It still hurt like a motherfucker, but resistance had become a thing of futility, and Bucky had no intention of being knocked unconscious yet again. So they took him, dragging his feet a little on the floor when he refused to walk on his own, and they followed the short man out into blinding white light.

Bucky had hissed, squeezing his eyes shut as he ducked his head, protecting his blown pupils. The dark had become a quiet sort of comfort, and now this light was harsh, consuming, and Bucky had no love for it. But he was taken deeper into it, until he was laid down once more, straps going over his ankles, thighs, stomach, and his right arm in three places—wrist, forearm, bicep.

_No need for anesthetics. The pain will be cleansing enough. Bring the first model_. The short man had said. Bucky blinked slowly, the light still blinding and painful, but he forced his eyes open enough to take in his surroundings. The room he was in was cold, windowless, with lamps all around. Several monitors had schematics of prosthetic limbs, anatomical models, and other things. A table was nearby with instruments that made Bucky’s heart race, and he fidgeted against his restraints.

A man came in with a heavy object that only vaguely resembled an arm, with large metal piping and thick wiring. It was cold when it touched Bucky’s skin, and he grit his teeth to quiet his cries as it was effectively clamped around what was left of his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

He spat blood, clutching his stomach with his right arm as another kick was delivered to his scarred left side. He felt a crack of his ribs and cried out quietly, shaking like a leaf on wind. He’d ripped the metal contraption from his shoulder and had tried impaling the metal pipes through his sternum. He’d only succeeded in puncturing skin and cracking it along with his collarbones before they came running in, stopping him from his attempted suicide.

 

* * *

 

They’d reduced him to one meal, and kept him under constant surveillance.

Bucky often spent his time curled into the corner of the new cell they’d brought him to. Whenever he became restless, someone would come in and give him a shot; if he didn’t sleep, he would sit and stare at the wall, imagining he could see rivers and forests in the cracks. When he did sleep, he would dream of fire and blood, and losing more than just his left arm.

Zola—the short man—said he was to be the leading fist in a revolution of new soldiers; men who’d lost much and become broken things in the process would be made anew and reborn in a light of man and machine. They would become perfect soldiers, utterly unstoppable. Bucky would be the first, with an arm that would be as pliable as his original, yet could break anything from paper to stone without effort.

The second prosthetic was an upgrade from the first, consisting less of heavy metal piping and more of connectors and joints; it moved more fluidly, and its wiring was wrapped around Bucky’s neck and shoulders. With specific movement of his left shoulder and neck, he could make the damned thing operate like an arm—a robotic arm, but an arm none the less.

 

* * *

 

Bucky had feigned issue, and when the man came with a shot to numb him, he twitched his shoulder and neck, wrapping the length of the metal beast around the man’s neck, crushing it in an instant. He used the corpse as a human shield, knocking over other guards, grunting and growling like a maniac as he forced his way from his cell.

He’d made it down the hall and towards Zola’s office, a fire to kill in his blood, before several men grabbed him, holding him against the wall as the metal arm was torn from his shoulder again. The wires had tightened and cut off circulation from Bucky’s throat, and some of the metal had cut against his shoulder again. He growled like an animal, swiping and clawing with his right hand before his shoulder was rotated and pulled back, and the joint was ripped from its socket. He howled, a knee buckling as a kick was delivered to the back of his thigh. He went down as Zola came around the corner.

The short man pursed his lips at the mess of technology and Bucky’s sweating face. _Such a waste. Put him to sleep by whatever means necessary._

 

* * *

 

When Bucky wasn’t at the mercy of Zola and his contraptions, he was at the mercy of his own inner demons, and the fucks who kept him from sleeping.

He sat, knees drawn to his chest, eyes furtively scanning the room. Sometimes in the corners he would see shadows flickering, like monsters creeping closer in on him. His stomach, caved from the rest of his torso, was mottled with bruising and Bucky’s fingers twitched against his kneecaps. His body ached, and he felt at any moment that he might fall to pieces.

Sometimes he would hear laughter, and he would whimper quietly, only wishing to pull himself tighter in until he reduced his matter to nothing and disappeared. Whenever he heard sounds, he’d whip his head back and forth, searching for the source of sound, only to be hit in the face by split ends of brown locks. His hair was long, hanging around his face and along his shoulders in a greasy, thin mess.

He no longer felt his shoulder. All of Zola’s experiments, between strapping and fastening heavy objects to it to injecting him with different compounds and serums had dulled the nerve-endings. He’d forgotten what it was like to reach out and touch something with the left half of him.

Teeth chattering, Bucky folded one foot over the other, burrowing his head between his chest and his knees, using his arm to cover part of his head. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to go home. He wanted to feel safe and secure. And above all, he wanted to die—just not here.

He didn’t know it, but it was two-thousand-ten.

 

* * *

 

He couldn’t dream anymore. He could barely sleep.

When he did sleep, it was of fire. It was of saws and blood; it was of kicks to the stomach, butts of guns to the face, needles in his shoulders, in his throat, in his veins, heart pumping too fast and carrying drugs too far and of being blown to pieces.

When he dreamt, he dreamt of dying. Over, and over.

 

* * *

 

Zola came to him, and said he had a masterpiece.

Bucky was taken to be prepped; unlike past excursions, he was given a surplus of food and water prior and hooked up to an IV that made him feel light as a feather. When he pressed his fingers together, he felt nothing. Not even pressure.

He had never been more afraid in his life of what the short man would do.

Several men were a part of this, and even though he was strapped down to the table, they had firm hands on his legs and right arm. There was even a strap going across his forehead to keep his head down. One man produced something rubbery and u-shaped, and Bucky opened his mouth; it was a guard, to keep from biting his own tongue, no doubt.

His heart raced faster.

Three other men came as Zola observed, giving quiet instructions in Russian— _yes, those needles first, in the ten places I’ve marked. Yes, we’ll need to cut him open and expose the nerves. The bones, joint, rotator cuff—everything will need to be taken out and replaced._

Bucky’s eyes wandered helplessly, taking in details of faces, hands, objects, and a long box that was sitting on a table beside Zola.

When they cut into him, he could feel the pressure, the weight and dig of the blades, but not the fire he’d once expected. He felt weak, vision blurred by the drugs that were pumping through him from the IV, and though he wanted to speak, to demand answers, to demand why he was being kept alive, words would not come. His tongue was thick in his mouth, and he found it difficult enough to breathe without trying to talk on top of it.

They opened his arm and shoulder, and Bucky would have felt sick to his stomach to see muscle and tendon and bone, but he watched with morbid fascination instead. _So that’s what I’m made of._ It wasn’t until they started cutting out his bones and cartilage that he felt discomfort, which led to pain, which led to an agony so hot that Bucky had passed out from the extremity of it, only to be awoken again when they exposed the nerves.

He fell in and out of consciousness, only knowing that he screamed by the raw texture of his throat. They cut him open and removed bones and some of the muscles, replacing them with—with— _graphene wrapped bone grafts_. Bucky wanted to thrash and wail, but he was held firm, and all that came from his throat were muffled and weak moans of despair.

The pain was white-hot and consuming; in his panic and anxiety, Bucky had fallen in and out of consciousness more times than he could count, as well as having spat up the food and drink they’d given him onto himself when the smell of blood became too much to handle. The dug in, replacing his God-given bones with these grafts, including his left collarbone, shoulder blade, all components of the join and the humerus itself. They’d even cut in and replaced the left-side ribs, as well as every-other vertebrae in his spine.

At least they were careful not to sever the nerve endings and leave him paralyzed.

When they’d replaced the bones with the grafts, they mended the muscles and tendons back into place, surgically binding them to the grafts while adding layers of tissue grafts to influence natural mending and growth.

Blinking, Bucky babbled incoherently as Zola reached into the box and produced a prosthetic like none Bucky had ever seen. It was perfect in its shape, with metal plates locked in side by side with one another. It even looked to bear the same shape of Bucky’s right arm, matching muscle definition—well, it _would_ match muscle definition, if not for the malnourishment he’d suffered.

The arm opened like a case, with two seams on either side that had previously been invisible. The mottle and bleeding heap of Bucky’s reconstructed shoulder was placed inside, and the men grabbed laser-like tools, molding the inner wires to Bucky’s bones and nerves in blindingly fire-hot pain.

Bucky’s chest felt tight, his head pounding as breathing became impossible. Whatever pain might’ve spurred thus could only have come from the procedure itself. But under the roaring in his ears, he could hear voices cursing in Russian— _he’s having a heart attack_.

 

* * *

 

He could faintly remember something like a metallic membrane being placed, and a torch coming in contact with the seam of the metal casing and his flesh. Enflamed tissue bubbled and split, and new scars fanned like a spider’s web along the newly made seam.

When the top half came down and hissed into place, welded again, Bucky knew this would not be some simply rip and go removal.

 

* * *

 

He woke, shaking, sweating, and unable to breathe.

And when he looked at his—no, _the_ arm, it was with hatred and despair.


	20. Chapter 20

“I thought about Russia the other day.” Sam eyed Bucky for a moment, before setting his cup of coffee down on the table between them. It was the first thing Bucky had said since walking into Sam’s office that afternoon for his session.

He’d dressed in a pair of jeans, his boots, and a light sweater, and had brought the glove along but wasn’t wearing it. He sat with his hands in his lap, staring at the metal fingers as his wiggled them slowly. Thinking of the details, of the horrible things he’d seen and suffered, it had put Bucky into possibly the worst attack since coming home. He’d been breathless, shaking violently, and his heart felt as though it would stop at any moment.

But then he thought of Sam’s instructions to think of calming things, and to breathe; vision black and ears ringing, Bucky had thought about Steve, and dancing, and having coffee with Natasha and making her smile, of tinkering in the shop and painting. Yet, when he visited these calming thoughts, his hair was long and his left arm was metal, and it was like he was seeing these things, both old and new, as though he’d always been this way—a shell-shocked and broken man who wanted to be happy.

Eventually he’d been able to calm himself, and he steadied both heart and breathing, before pulling himself into a sitting position against the wall. With time, the blackness of his vision faded and the ringing in his ears stopped, and he was able to think of smaller, lesser details from Russia—being in the cell, trying to stay calm and stay alive for as long as he could. He tucked other memories away, so as not to hurt himself further.

“Did you now? How did you handle it?” Sam asked, folding his hands in front of him.

“I freaked out. Couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe; I wanted to call out for someone but it was like there was a pressure on my chest and I couldn’t speak. I wanted to panic but I remembered what you said—about finding calm things. So I thought about things that make me happy.”

“What makes you happy?” Bucky smiled faintly, tracing his fingers along the metal joints.

“Dancing. Tinkering in a shop—though I haven’t… haven’t done that in years, now that I think about it. And—”

“And, what?”

Bucky smiled a little wider, lost in his thoughts. “Steve. There’s a guy I’ve gotten to know named Steve. Being around him makes me happy.” Sam smiled warmly at Bucky.

“That’s good to hear. Tell me about Steve. What is it about him that makes you feel better?”

“He’s just… good. Like the definition of good, y’know? We go for coffee sometimes, and I,” Bucky chuckled, shaking his head, “I’m teaching him how to dance. We’ve only practiced once but it was nice. To get out and move to music—I haven’t done it since college but it was really good.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, I mean, Steve is just… like I said, he’s good. He’s kind and honest, and he’s so funny at the most unexpected of times. I can’t say I’ve ever met someone so unashamedly true to themselves the way Steve is. I haven’t told him about Russia or—or _this_ , but I… I want to. I feel like I owe him that for how he’s been for me. Like he’s so humble and good and it’s a disservice that he doesn’t know this part of me, because I feel like I can count on him to know just how and when to help or back off. But if he doesn’t know this part, then how can I expect him to understand?”

Sam watched him for a moment with this knowing smile on his face, and he took hold of his coffee again. Bucky felt a blush crawling along his throat and up to his cheeks, and he looked back down at his hands again. The gleam still pulled and twisted his stomach, but it wasn’t so bad. Maybe—maybe Sam had a point, if he started thinking of it as a useful and necessary thing, then he could try…

“I feel like I’ve come to know you pretty well, Bucky,” Sam said softly, keeping a tender smile on his face, “and, the way you talk about Steve, you clearly think fondly of him. Do you see yourself being close with Steve?”

Once upon a time, Bucky might’ve taken the insinuation of his sexuality and been offended. But he knew better, and he knew he’d never been strictly one way or another, but somewhere in the grey middle. Crinkling his nose a little, Bucky sighed quietly, chewing on the corner of his lip a little before speaking. “I… I don’t know. Ultimately it’s up to Steve, and how he handles whatever I throw at him, and how I handle whatever he sends my way. I mean I’d—I’d like to, you know? Because he does make me happy. But I don’t know.”

“I think you should talk to him. Maybe not bring everything down at once—you wouldn’t wanna overwhelm him or anything. And who knows, maybe he’s the kind of guy who could handle that. People can take you by surprise when you least expect it, and, if he’s as good as you believe him to be, I feel like he’ll surprise you for the better.”

_Try it sometime. He might surprise you_.

“I should have another friend of mine come see you. I think the two of you could become quite an item in advice alone.”

“How do you mean?” Sam said with a grin.

“The other day we’d had coffee and talked about Steve—she’s really close with him—and she said that I should talk to him because he might surprise me.” Sam chuckled softly, holding his mug loosely in his hands.

“What’s her name?”

“Natasha.” Sam nodded, keeping his smile.

“Maybe. That’s up to her—I don’t approach potential clients.”

“Nah, I don’t mean as a client. I think just as a person, a friend. You might find common ground.” Other than the fact that Sam was a therapist and Natasha was a porn star, sure, there was common ground to be had all over.

“I’m supposed to be helping you, Bucky, not the other way around.” Bucky laughed quietly.

“It was just a suggestion, Sam. But, you never know.”


	21. Chapter 21

The next day, Bucky was back in the studio with Steve to continue their dancing.

They’d gone back over the original steps that Bucky had taught him, fumbling and laughing a little bit whenever Steve missed a step or accidentally came too close and brushed his toes over Bucky’s. Bucky couldn’t find it within himself to mind too much, because Steve was full of enthusiastic smiles, and slowly but surely he was able to fluidly go through the steps and dance.

Bucky tried not to let too many things get into his head—between the flashbacks and his session with Steve, there was a part of him that was still fairly shaken, still desiring to curl in and hide and be alone. But Steve had finally gotten a few days to himself and the first thing he’d done was text Bucky and say _I wanna dance again. Meet me tomorrow? <3_

The little heart melted all of his worries and filled him with smiles.

Bucky had initially dressed in his sweatshirt and pants, reaching for the glove that morning before he stopped himself. He’d thought about what Natasha had said, and what Sam had said, and deep within himself he wanted to show Steve and tell him, because he was so sick of hiding it and being ashamed of it. The arm was a part of him and he would more easily accept that fact with the support of those he felt close to.

He changed into sweats and a long-sleeved shirt instead of the sweatshirt, but he pulled the glove on anyway. He would tell Steve—he would force himself if he had to. But it was like Sam had said—he didn’t want to overwhelm Steve and run the risk of chasing him off. Not that he felt Steve would, but it was still a risk he didn’t really want to take. Not when things were changing, and he was starting to feel okay again.

When he’d gotten to the studio, Steve was already inside, dressed in another tight-fitting shirt and sweats, stretching his legs on the floor. Bucky had smiled, setting his bag and phone aside while tossing a comment over his shoulder— _do you wear those shirts because they’re comfortable, or are they secretly for my viewing pleasure?_

Steve hadn’t missed a beat— _secretly I’m trying to plant a seed in your head and get you to show up in one. You’ve had enough_ viewing pleasure _, it’s my turn now._

It continued similarly for the hour and a half that they practiced and danced, throwing one flirtatious comment after the next at one another until they were red-faced and laughing, and not so subtly eyeing the other’s lips.

But Bucky was nothing if not firm, and he made it a point to let Steve know that they could flirt after they’d gone through the steps and begun learning new ones. To which Steve pouted and rolled his eyes dramatically, but he took Bucky’s hands anyway—and the soldier watched the flash of his eyes over the gloved hand, though Steve said nothing—and they began to dance.

And it was the most freeing sensation ever, to have another so close as he moved. Bucky’s face had started to ache over an hour ago from smiling so much, but that didn’t stop him from continuing to smile as he and Steve moved to the music, their feet like gentle waves the way they stepped and rocked back and forth. Steve had finally gotten the confidence to look up from the floor, and often times he was smiling back at Bucky.

When they took a break for water, Steve leaned against the mirrors beside Bucky, sipping slowly as sweat clung to his hairline and throat. It took everything within Bucky not to jump him, breathe him in and voice his sins. But he kept to himself and drank his water, glancing over at Steve more than once, and being caught just as many times.

Surprisingly, Steve took to the new steps and tricks more easily than he had the first day, and Bucky was able to teach him two new moves, blending them in with the first initial steps and tricks that they’d already learned. Soon, they were dancing almost effortlessly across the studio floor, and Steve laughed as Bucky whirled him around. And, for Bucky, it was the most beautiful sound; to listen to Steve laugh in delight at the prospect of doing something so vigorously _freeing_ with his body without it being strictly sexual (it was still somewhat sexual, but not entirely) was…

Well, it was incredible.

When they’d started, their hands were lightly clasped in front of them, light and almost innocent. Now, though, they were close, almost clinging when the spins and tricks proved disorienting, yet they couldn’t bring themselves to part when it was simpler. And there came a point where they just slowed, ignoring the music and its rhythm and opted just to be close. For Bucky it was new, and he had to swallow the thumping in his throat as one of Steve’s hands slid to his hip, before coming round to the small of his lower back.

Affection and closeness were hardly new concepts for Bucky, but the last time he’d been touched in any manner beyond handshakes and clasps on the shoulder (and those took long enough to get used to without jumping out of his skin and wrapping his metal hand around the offender’s throat) had been when he was in captivity. So the idea of weight, of such proximity, left him feeling vaguely uncomfortable at first.

But then he looked up at Steve’s face, and every worry was gone.

This close, Bucky was able to see the depths of Steve’s eyes, how they weren’t strictly blue but had flecks of green and grey in them as well, and his mile-long eyelashes just about brushed the tops of his cheeks as he blinked. There was a dusting of freckles that Bucky had never noticed before across the bridge of his nose and against his cheekbones, and Bucky wondered how long it would take to map them from one side to the other with kisses.

Steve’s thick lips pulled into a smile, and Bucky swallowed his heart back down into his chest. “What are you thinking about?” He asked, and Bucky watched his mouth as he spoke, before meeting the brunette’s eyes.

“Take a wild guess.”

When Steve kissed him, Bucky didn’t feel the slightest inclination to push or pull away. He returned the kiss with the softest of moans, bringing his hands up to cup Steve’s face slowly. Whatever it was about Steve Rogers left him feeling less broken and more right. And Bucky—God, he couldn’t even fathom where to begin; here he was, kissing the man he was ultimately infatuated with—the very same he would jerk to at home after walking into Gwen’s shop that random day weeks ago.

In the depths of himself, Bucky felt insecure; was he going too fast? He and Steve, in truth, did not know much about the other short of scattered details over coffee at the café. But there was no secret that Bucky felt _happy_ and _safe_ in Steve’s presence, like Steve was some sexual guardian angel come to home when needed most. There was a tickling in the back of his mind that he should stop and suggest they go slow, really make something out of this.

But then there was another that trembled; what if this was nothing to Steve? What if this was casual; or worse, what if this was pity service. Bucky was a broken man from war with secrets and horrors cut and burned into his skin; what if all that Steve had done and said and given to Bucky was merely out of sympathy and nothing more?

Shaking against Steve, Bucky pulled away after a moment. He looked at Steve, seeing the man’s eyes were closed and his lips parted. Steve’s first motion was forward, as if to capture him again, but he opened his eyes instead, and took in Bucky’s concerned expression. All at once, the fervor of passion was wiped away, and Steve’s face twisted into apologetic and worried.

“Bucky?” Steve whispered, barely heard over the thrum of music. Bucky bit the corner of his lip, withdrawing slowly from his arms before going to the stereo to shut it off. “Bucky, what’s wrong? Are you uncomfortable?”

“N-no. I… I don’t know.” He said, swallowing again, wishing his voice hadn’t cracked the way it did. He inhaled shakily, bringing a hand up to wipe away the sting of tears that was clinging to his left eye before pushing his fingers through his hair. He would not cry in front of Steve. He would not.

“Buck,” Steve said quietly, “if there’s something going on, you know you can tell me, right? I don’t want to do anything you’re not ready for.” Bucky wanted to believe him.

He turned a little, standing profile to Steve before looking over at him. His face, his eyes—everything was written in genuine concern. _But he can be a good actor, can he not?_ Bucky swallowed slowly again, finding that his hands were trembling lightly. He was acting so stupid and selfish, thinking that Steve would be so heartless. Natasha had said that Steve often spoke fondly of Bucky, and Natasha did not seem like a woman to sugarcoat or lie for the benefit of those less known to her.

Still, he was wounded, and cautious.

Steve took a step towards him, and when Bucky made no move or mention against his advancement, he came closer still, reaching down to take Bucky’s right hand in his. “You’re afraid, aren’t you? Of what?”

Bucky looked up at him, feeling the clench of his throat and the stinging in his eyes again. God _damnit_ , he _would not_ cry in front of Steve. Not like this. Not now. “That,” he choked, before breathing slowly. Steve’s hand tightened around his. “That I’m fooling myself, I suppose.”

Steve frowned, obviously hurt. “Bucky…”

“You have to understand where I’m coming from with this. You have to—to know that I want to, more than anything in the world. Fuck, Steve, I—I feel so _light_ and _good_ around you and that’s not something I’ve had in a very _long_ time, and I—” there was that clench and he cleared his throat, looking away as he felt the warm wetness of tears sliding down his cheek, “I just… don’t want to throw myself into something if you’re not in it with me. For _real_.”

“Bucky… I,” Steve sighed, slowly dragging his hands up Bucky’s shoulders before embracing him slowly, “Please, don’t ever feel like I’d do anything as a service to you just because you’re a soldier. You _were_ a soldier, but you’re here now, and you’re a man, a wonderful, beautiful, _talented_ man.”

Bucky scoffed into his chest, but his fingers came up to cling to Steve’s hips. He looked down at the glove on his metal hand, and his chest seized a little. “But you don’t even know the worst parts.”

“As long as you’re not like, a serial killer or a pedophile, I think I’m good with whatever your worst is.” Bucky clenched his jaw and burrowed deeper against Steve.

There was a bit of quiet as Bucky calmed, shoving and stamping and putting out the flames of fear and anxiety, telling himself that he was a fool to believe Steve to be anything other than virtuous and kind. And when he relaxed, his slipped his arms around Steve’s waist, holding onto him for a long while.

“You don’t have to tell me now, or in a week, a month, fuck, even a year. I am patient. I know the weight of things you don’t wanna talk about, trust me. But, from now on, we take it at your pace. We won’t do or say anything you’re not cool with. You’re home, and you’re safe, but I want you to feel safe _with me_ , too. Okay?”

Bucky smiled, feeling more tears clinging to his eyes. “What did I do to have you come into my life?”

Steve chuckled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You watched me have sex with other people on film, and then you asked to get in touch with me. Other than that—you existed. And I thank God every day for it.”


	22. Chapter 22

To make up for his emotional state of being, Bucky had offered to take Steve out for dinner that night.

Steve, at the time, had waved him off and said that Bucky didn’t need to do anything for him, that he understood where Bucky’s feelings were coming from and that they were valid, but Bucky wouldn’t take no for an answer. Wiping away the last traces of his tears, he’d put his palm flat on Steve’s chest and braved a smile. _I’m taking you to dinner, Rogers. Ain’t nothing you can say to change my mind or back out of it._

Steve had just smiled, and kissed his cheek.

Later that evening, freshly showered and shaved, Bucky stood in front of his dresser, cursing himself that he still hadn’t found a good pair of slacks or a button up. He’d had plenty of time to go out and purchase them, but had never bothered to get around to _actually_ doing it; now, with only an hour before he was supposed to meet Steve, he didn’t have the time to go out and buy anything fancy.

Sighing softly, he took each of the drawers, dumping them onto his bed one at a time before sifting through the contents, hoping to find something—anything—that would be wearable on his date. Smiling faintly to himself, Bucky brushed his hair from his face, breathing slowly as he calmed himself. Just hours before he was expressing panic and concern and now he couldn’t feel anything but joy and excitement; Steve had told him, even gone as far as proven to him with kindness and patience, that they would take things slow and help him feel safe.

And Bucky trusted him, unconditionally. He’d only known the man—honest to God known—for two weeks (oh, _God_ , no wonder he felt so seasick being tossed back and forth on the waves of his emotions), but Bucky _trusted_ him. Because Steve felt like an old friend, an old flame, like someone Bucky had known for his entire life and then some. It just felt right.

Pushing aside stacks of tee shirts and sweaters, Bucky gave a disgruntled sigh before turning away from the mess on his bed. He didn’t often do laundry, and his slacks hadn’t been worn or washed since the first visit to the café with Steve. Pulling them from beneath a heap of clothes and boxers, Bucky gave the slacks a once over; they weren’t in _terrible_ condition, and perhaps a quick pass with the iron and they’d look good. For all he knew he was going to dinner, which required sitting.

But a good impression was important.

Eventually, Bucky settled on ironing the slacks, pulling out a pair of dress shoes he’d gotten from a comrade after coming home—only a year and it still felt like a lifetime ago. He’d never worn them since he’d never really had a reason; he preferred his boots anyway, for they were far more comfortable to him than any pair of tennis shoes or dress shoes that he could’ve found or tried on (unless it came to dancing, at which point he did have a pair of shoes just for that that he’d saved from college).

But that still left him without any sort of a shirt; he knew he had a blazer or a nice coat tucked somewhere in the closet—even nicer than the one he’d worn a few times meeting Steve or Natasha for coffee. Padding through to the closet, Bucky pushed sweatshirt after sweatshirt aside before coming across a garment bag. Staring at it, he sighed heavily; inside was his decorated uniform—not the one he’d worn in combat, but the one he’d come home in. He hadn’t even looked at it since coming home.

Maybe another night for that one.

Finding both light blazer and coat, Bucky pulled them from the closet before tossing them over the top of his dresser. Going back to the bed, he rummaged through before finding a crinkled white button up. Frowning, he set it aside on top of the slacks, thankful that he’d at least gotten the iron set up and ready to go before continuing his search. He’d have to move quickly—what time was it exactly?

Shit. Forty minutes left—had it really been twenty since he’d stepped out of the shower and began contemplating what he was going to wear?

Grimacing, Bucky glanced at the iron before looking at the crinkled pants and shirt. He’d need to find something else to wear. He wasn’t going to have time to smooth that shit out, put it on, look presentable, _and_ get out the door so he could meet Steve as a respectable time. Cursing quietly, Bucky shoved his hands into the pile of clothes again, finding a pair of black denim pants—when had been the last time he worse these?—and a long sleeved, deep red sweater. He could still throw the coat over it and be golden.

Dressing quickly, Bucky had to shimmy a little into the jeans, sighing heavily when he finally managed to get them on comfortably. It had definitely been a while since he last wore them, and he almost wondered if they’d been from his college days, long before the military. He couldn’t be bothered with it now, though; he was running short on time and the restaurant they’d planned on was at least fifteen minutes away walking.

Slipping the sweater over his head, Bucky glanced at his reflection in the mirror, noticing that the neck of the sweater was a little wider than some of his other ones, and the scarring along the side of his neck was visible, as well as the tip of the metal that crossed towards his collarbone. Biting his lip, he stared at his reflection for a long time, debating changing the sweater or leaving it.

Gripping the sides, he shifted the fabric back and forth before finding a comfortable place to leave it where, at least, the metal was covered even though the scars were still visible. He knew he needed to be honest with Steve at some point, and while the brunette had mentioned that he was fine with being patient for Bucky’s sake, it was still important to Bucky. _Don’t overwhelm him. But it’s time you did this; for Steve, and—more importantly—yourself._

Sliding into his coat and grabbing the left-handed glove, Bucky padded himself down before finding his wallet and keys in the living room. Cursing, he realized he was still shoeless, and retreated back to his room, slipping on socks and the dress shoes. They were tight and they squeaked when he walked, but he looked decent, and that was enough for him. He gave himself one more look in the mirror, moderately satisfied with his appearance.

He still needed a haircut.

Making his way down to the lobby, he gave the woman at the desk a smile and a nod, before slipping out into the brisk air of evening. It was still light out, and Bucky slid his keys, wallet, and phone into the pockets of his coat before walking down the street, hanging right at the corner. He would have to walk about five blocks and then make a left before the restaurant would even be in sight. But he’d checked his time, and he had less than half an hour. He’d be alright.

While walking he slid the glove over his metal hand, his heart pounding as he walked to the rhythm of it. A light breeze kicked through his coat and hair, making both flow delicately as pushed his hands into his pockets. He wasn’t quite sure what had made today so different, or why he felt so excited and nervous all at once. He’d had coffee with Steve multiple times, had begun teaching him to dance, and they texted regularly. It wasn’t like this was a first date situation.

_But it is a first dinner date. And those can be pretty special._

Curling around the corner, Bucky could see the sign— _Bellagio’s_ —in the distance. For an evening, there were few cars or passersby, and that, strangely, comforted Bucky. The idea of having some privacy, of not being around too many people, relieved him some, and he was trotting up the steps to the doors before he even realized it.

Slipping inside, he was greeted by a hostess at the front of the restaurant. “Two for Barnes?” He told her, and she checked her list before nodding once, smiling.

“Would you like to wait for your guest, or would you like your table now?”

“I’ll go ahead and sit now, with a bottle of wine, please,” Bucky could be a decent and heavy drinker when he wanted to be; since coming home, though, he’d toned it down. But tonight was special.

The hostess led him to a table tucked into the back with low lighting, before returning moments later with a bottle of red and two glasses. He gave a smile in thanks, before shrugging out of his coat to let it rest on the back of the chair. He shifted the sweater again before taking his seat.

It must’ve been less than five minutes before he saw Steve’s shadow cross the wall, and the man came around the corner with a smile. Bucky stood, taking in the line of his slacks, a white button up and a dark blue cardigan, noting the gentle way Steve’s short hair was pushed back a little. He had his trademark golden smile, and Bucky pressed a hand to his shoulder before kissing him softly.

Steve must have been surprised, for he did not kiss back right away. But when he did, it was with the softest of moans that buzzed against Bucky’s lips. When they parted, Steve was grinning, a darker coloring across his cheeks than before. “Well, that was pleasantly unexpected.”

“I have mood swings; I’m not completely intolerant of kissing you.” Bucky said, smiling faintly. Steve chuckled, kissing him again.

“Thank God for that then,” he said, before taking his seat across from Bucky’s.

“I got wine,” Bucky said after a moment of silence when words failed him, and Steve smiled even brighter (if possible).

“I can see that,” he took hold of the bottle, eyeing it, “Chianti. Good choice.” He poured them each half a glass before setting the bottle back down onto the table. Bucky watched as Steve took his glass in hand, twirling the liquid within before taking a small sip. Steve let out a soft _mmm_ , and Bucky took that as a good sign, and sipped from his own glass as well.

“So,” Steve said, after setting his glass down, “I know it’s only been, like, six hours since I last saw you, but how are you? Overall, I mean.”

“I’m okay,” Bucky said, the corner of his mouth curling up a little, “better than earlier after my outburst. In general, I’m good. I’m doing better.”

Steve smiled, reaching across the table to take Bucky’s hand, “I like the sound of that.”


	23. Chapter 23

“So, wait, let me get this straight,” Bucky chucked softly, holding the stem of his glass with his fingers, his left hand resting on his lap, “in all of the films you’ve done with various other partners, you only have two favorites? Why is that?”

Steve smiled softly, crinkling his nose a little before taking a sip of wine from his own glass. They’d already consumed one bottle together, and had since started a second before their meals even arrived. For the most part they ate in between pieces of conversations, but found that it was much easier to drink and talk than eat. “Well, times change y’know? Sometimes you do something, and at the time you’re proud of it, but then you go along and you do other themes and work with other people and you look back and you think ‘nah, not anymore’.”

“So what’s your least favorite one that you’ve done?” Bucky asked, smiling. His face felt warm and he’d almost wished he’d worn something other than the sweater. It was light enough, sure, but he couldn’t comfortably push the sleeves up as the wrist cuffs were too small. It didn’t help that the food felt like a million degrees hotter than necessary, or that the room was dim and warm. Maybe he needed to lay off the wine.

“Mm… _Tactical Insertion_ ,” Steve said slowly, smiling softly behind his wine glass.

“I rented that at one point, but never got around to actually watching it. Why didn’t you like it?” It was an honest question, but when Bucky noticed the darkness in Steve’s eyes, he wished he hadn’t asked.

“It was just… it was an uncomfortable theme, I suppose. It’s one of my earlier ones, too; it paid well, and it was well received, don’t get me wrong. But… yeah, it was one of those ones where I would go to set and remind myself that it was just a film and that it was going to help pay bills.”

Frowning softly, Bucky bit his lip. “I’m sorry; I didn’t realize it was touchy for you.”

Steve smiled, shrugging a shoulder a little. “It’s alright, Buck. I’m over it now because I did it—oh, two or three years ago? I mean, it was _early_ in my career, and at the time I was still new to it all, so it—it wasn’t something that I particularly enjoyed, but, y’know, it is what it is.”

Bucky smiled a little, but he still felt a pang of guilt for having brought up something so sensitive for Steve. For a man who smiled and laughed so often, it was almost physically painful to see anything else on his face. Taking another drink of his wine, Bucky traced his thumb along the rim of the glass. His face still felt warm and he could feel a small bead of sweat running down the line of his spine beneath his sweater, but he paid it little mind.

When he looked up, he found Steve watching him with a pleasant and gentle smile on his face. Blushing beneath the heat of alcohol, Bucky bit the corner of his lip a little. “What? What are you looking at?”

“Just you, soldier boy,” Steve said softly, reaching over to hook a finger into Bucky’s sleeve, bringing his hand closer to lace their fingers. “And thinking about how unfuckingbelievably lucky I am that you asked me out to dinner tonight.”

Bucky laughed softly, and his heart wedged itself in his throat. “Well, I figured it was the least I could offer, really. You’ve been patient with my stupid self—”

“You’re not stupid, Buck,” Steve said almost at once, his fingers tightening between Bucky’s to give a squeeze, “please don’t ever think you are.”

“You know what I meant. With… everything, all these stu—little things that keep pulling me back, y’know. I want to just enjoy things but—”

“—but you’re still healing.” Steve was so matter of fact, and so soft in his approach that Bucky could only swallow thickly and nod slowly, staring at their tangled fingers. He stretched his thumb and traced it over the back of Steve’s knuckles, noticing a thin, white scar that traced between his index and middle fingers. He rubbed it slowly, finding that it was smooth and had healed over enough so that, while visible, it was no longer raised.

“Yeah,” Bucky mused quietly, looking up at Steve again. The brunette smiled softly at him. “I don’t know, I just… Sometimes I think I’m ready and then I feel, I guess, trapped in a way. But I can’t even be sure of what it is that’s holding me back. I know, in a way, it’s just myself, but I know it’s more than that, too. It’s not just me.”

In front of him, Steve nodded slowly in understanding. _But how could you know? How could you act as though you know so personally what I’m feeling_? Breathing slowly, Bucky tightened his fingers, clenching his jaw as he smiled back at Steve. Whatever it was, whether in his own mind or unspoken between them, Steve understood to a certain level, and that was a kind of security Bucky hadn’t realized he needed until he felt it.

There was a long moment of silence where they just sat, occasionally drinking from their glasses and keeping their hands together on the table. Their food had long since been forgotten and, no doubt, had gone cold. But Bucky didn’t mind; and the way Steve continued to watch him, glazed with the warmth of wine yet still so _damn clear and blue_ , Bucky couldn’t imagine that Steve cared much either.

When their glasses were emptied and the bottle polished off, Steve gave Bucky’s hand another squeeze. “You want to get out of here? Go on a walk, or something?”

Bucky licked his lips and smiled. “Yeah,” he said, “I could go for something like that.”

And they did; Bucky slapped down a thin stack of cash to pay for their meal and leave a blessed tip before walking hand in hand out of the restaurant with Steve, his coat light over his shoulders. Outside, the air was cool, and when it kissed Bucky’s face he sighed quietly as the weight of drink seemed to slide off into the recesses of his subconscious.

It was quiet as they began to walk, but eventually Steve drew a step closer to Bucky, lacing their fingers more comfortably. “You know, in all the years I’ve lived in this general area, I’ve never really gone on a walk before. Not unless I was going somewhere, y’know? I never just _walked_ for the sake of it.”

Beside him, Bucky smiled faintly. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, actually. But that could be because I’ve got a beautiful man on my arm.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but his face flushed. “Oh, stop. Your charm is making my teeth are ache.”

“Maybe I can soothe that?” Bucky stopped to eye him, and Steve took his opportunity to swoop in slowly, planting a small and chaste—but so wonderful—kiss on Bucky’s lips. Moaning quietly, Bucky placed his left hand against Steve’s shoulder, holding onto his hand with his right as they kissed. When they parted, Bucky licked his lips.

“Well, soldier boy?” Steve murmured, tracing another kiss along Bucky’s cheek, “how do those aches feel now?”

“Better. Though, I have to admit, you keep kissing me at all and I’ll have a new one.” Steve snickered, kissing him once more before they continued to walk.

“I wanted to thank you, honestly, for asking me out to dinner,” Steve began again after a moment or two, “I may have been tossing and turning in my own mind the best way to ask you out, and instead I just kept making excuses to get you back to the studio.”

Bucky laughed quietly, leaning into Steve for a moment. “And why would you prefer me back in the studio than out at dinner with you, Rogers?”

The look that Steve swept Bucky’s way made his knees feel weak, and Bucky was extremely thankful that he was pressed so close and practically clinging to Steve; without the support, he surely would have toppled over. “I love watching you dance. Half the time I get so tripped up now is because I get caught up watching you; the way your face completely relaxes, the way you smile, the way you so effortlessly _move_ … Bucky, maybe I was born to fuck people, but _you_ were born to _dance_.”

Swallowing, Bucky clenched his teeth, hiding his face and the wetness in his eyes that threatened to spill. _Unfuckingbelievable, I swear to God._ “Steve, I… wow. I’m so touched. Maybe I should follow my life’s passion and become an exotic dancer after all.”

Steve roared, stopping in their tread for a moment to rest a hand over Bucky’s heart, holding him close as he laughed. Bucky couldn’t contain his own chuckles, and after a moment he and Steve were practically bent over and laughing with tears glistening in the corners of their eyes.

Once calmed, Steve brushed his hair from his face, smiling brightly, “While I would pay good money to see you work a pole, soldier boy, I think your talents are better suited for ballroom. Honestly, though, one day I’d love to see you dressed to the nines, hair styled, on a proper floor, just going to _town_. Kids today have their grinding and twerking and all this other club shit, and that’s fun when you’re drunk and all, but there is nothing _sexier_ than watching you get into your zone and _move_.”

“Remember when I said my teeth were aching?” Steve raised an eyebrow, and smiled.

“Yeah?”

“I think they’re about to fall out. I need your help keeping them in.”

Steve grinned, and kissed him again.


	24. Chapter 24

“I’m getting there,” Bucky said softly, examining the metal fingers of his left hand and the way the sunlight splashed across and gleamed against the opposite wall. Across from him, Sam was watching with a small, pleasant smile. “I mean, I still haven’t—y’know, shown it to anyone, but I use it. When I do things in the morning, or if I’m dancing with Steve, or whatever, I use it. Sometimes without second thought.”

It had been two days since his date with Steve, and the only churn of his gut that Bucky had felt was not being comfortable enough to even show the hand, let alone the entire arm. When he’d gone home—after several exchanges of kisses in front of his apartment—he’d felt, overall, giddy and light-hearted. But he’d wanted to be more open, and more honest, and he just hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell Steve, or to just remove the glove and show him.

He knew that Steve had some idea; the man was smart—smarter than Bucky could’ve ever imagined—and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that the glove on his hand was meant for something more than cold fingertips. And he’d caught the way Steve’s eyes quickly roamed across the side of his neck where his hair wasn’t covering it, and he knew that Steve had seen the webbing of scars that disappeared beneath his sweater. Bucky knew that Steve had some idea.

In his chair, Sam shifted a little before folding his hands together. He was leaning forward some, shoulders straight, elbows on his knees. He always looked so relaxed, yet engaged; he rarely sat back, or crossed a leg over the other. He rarely took a position that distanced himself from Bucky, which Bucky appreciated. He distanced himself enough from others that, though unsettling it had been at first, having someone willing enough to be in relatively close proximity was refreshing.

“Do you find this is because of your growing relationship with Steve?” Sam asked.

“Maybe. The man is rather affectionate, y’know, even before we started getting closer, he had no fear of being physically close—touching my shoulder, taking my hand, just generally being close. I think—I don’t know, maybe he has. Maybe getting out and being able to do things takes my mind off of it to the point that I don’t realize I’m using it freely until I look down and something’s in my hand.”

Sam smiled warmly, licking his lips a little. “Have you considered trying things without the glove? Maybe at home, to start? So you can feel a little more comfortable with it before letting others in to see it?”

Bucky had considered it; when he slept at night—still on the floor—he didn’t wear the glove. Even now he’d began wearing long sleeved shirts or jackets while he slept, opting for tee shirts or cut offs. There were small things that he was willing to do, and slightly larger things that he was trying to accommodate, such as not avoiding mirrors when wearing tee shirts or calming himself when waking from particularly dark things and seeing the metal.

It was a slow process, and Bucky knew that it would take time.

“I have been. Not many things, but a few. Trying to work my way up to a better place, y’know?” Bucky said simply, still staring down at his hands. When he brushed his right over his left, he felt the coolness of metal, how smooth and sleek it was. There were a few dinges here and there, diluted smears and smudges and dust.

Swallowing slowly, Bucky traced the lines where the plates were connected, twisting his hand and wrist to observe as they shifted for rotation. From a mechanic’s perspective, the bloody thing was finely crafted, and well beyond modern levels of technological understanding. Of course, with time, he could probably learn the kinks and tricks of it, and figure out a better way of caring and cleaning it.

“What are you thinking about?” Sam’s voice cut in through his thoughts. Bucky clenched a fist, before releasing it slowly.

“The fact that my first thought it’s ‘I want to rip this off’.” He didn’t see it, but Sam grinned.

“What is your first thought?” Bucky thought about it and chuckled.

“It’s dingy as fuck. I should probably clean it.” In front of him, Sam laughed quietly.

“Well, Bucky, I’d say that’s improvement.” Bucky nodded once, but sighed softly.

“It’s still not where I should be. It’s been a part of me for… for four fucking years, and I’ve been home for a little over one, now, and… and you’d think that maybe I’d be farther along than this. That I wouldn’t be hiding beneath sleeves and gloves and only just starting to not grimace at mirrors when I see the reflection, you know?”

Sam frowned a little. “Bucky, no one can make you be any further along than you are right now; every individual goes at their own pace when they’re healing. Some people I’ve talked to, sure, they get right back into their old ways of life real quick. And there have been others that took well over ten years to feel even remotely comfortable amongst small groups of friends, let alone in the wide face of public. Where you are with the arm is exactly where you need to be right now.”

Breathing slowly, Bucky turned his palm back and forth slowly, rubbing his fingers across the synthetic material. The pressure and faintness of warmth from his fingers felt oddly soothing.

“I suppose so,” Bucky said softly, crinkling his nose a little before looking up at Sam again. The man smiled at him, shifting to sit up a little straighter.

“I think you’re being a bit hard on yourself, Bucky,” Sam mentioned at first, his smile refusing to fade, “You have made milestones of progress since you first started coming to me. Do you remember our first meeting nine months ago?”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth lifted a little, “Yeah, I do. I wouldn’t look you in the eye, I barely spoke, and I sat in such a way that my entire arm was shifted away from my body, like I couldn’t even bear the idea of the fabric touching me, let along the actual thing.”

“And look at you now, Bucky: dressed comfortably, clean shaven, having full and open conversations… and twice today you’ve referred to it as _your_ arm.”

Blinking once, Bucky looked down at the metal versus flesh of his hands again, opening and closing both slowly. He could faintly hear the plates of the arm shifting as he flexed, a tiny groan of gears churning.

“Have I?”

“Yeah,” Sam’s smile was small, pulling only at the corners of his lips, “You have.”

Bucky opened and closed his hands again, licking his lips once before lifting his head. “I didn’t even notice? I… I spent so long being so focused on referring to it otherwise that I must’ve just—”

“Stopped?” Sam interjected, and Bucky nodded his head once.

“Yeah.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. Cause it’s exhausting it, having it always on the back of your mind that you have to refer to it as _other_ , isn’t it?”

“Completely,” Bucky breathed, chuckling softly. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am where I need to be.”

Sam snorted. “Of course I’m right, I’m your therapist.” Bucky laughed a little.

“No, I mean… With everything. Slowly starting to use it, not feeling so paranoid with it. I want so badly to be able to show it off and not have anyone care or have anyone pity me and just be okay with it and with me, but I know that’s not how people work. People will gawk, some will pull their kids away, some will look at me with wounded eyes even though they’re not the ones who got hurt in the first place. That’s just what people do. And I can’t subject myself to what people will do until I’m at a point where I can look at myself and go ‘You know what? Yeah, this fucking sucked, but it’s me, and fuck all of you, I look badass with it’.”

Sam was grinning ear to ear. “I think you might reach that ideal sooner than you think, Bucky.”


	25. Chapter 25

_Nat, it’s Bucky. Can we meet? I need your advice._

Bucky had sent that at the crack-ass-of-too-early, because he knew Natasha would be awake. And, sure enough, within moments, her response came.

_Café, thirty minutes. If you’re asking for Steve’s favorite position or lube, you can ask him yourself._

He’d laughed, rolling his eyes. _I’d like to be a little more romantic before planning to fuck his brains out. Work with me, Nat, I’m trying to be charming._

_You, charming? What is this world coming to? I’ll see you soon, James._

Half an hour later, dressed in jeans, a sweater and his glove, Bucky was sitting across from Natasha in the café, a cup of coffee between his hands, and his hair pulled back into a loose ponytail off of his neck.

“So. You wanted advice on Steve? What do you need?”

“I want to do something special for him. But, I’ll be entirely honest, I have no idea where to begin. Whenever we spend time together we’re either dancing, or flirting, or kissing.” In front of him, Natasha smiled, stirring her coffee slowly. Her hair was pulled back into a loose braid, soft traces of makeup around her eyes, matching red nail polish adorning her nails. Unlike Bucky’s sweater and jeans, Natasha was dressed in a denim shirt and black leggings, boots stopping at the tops of her ankles.

“So you’ve known and spent time with Steve for over two weeks now, and you probably don’t even know his birthday, do you?” Bucky’s face flushed, and he looked away.

“I know it’s in July?”

“July fourth. Nineteen-eighty-four.” Natasha said smoothly, bringing her spoon to her lips, licking it clean.

“I didn’t realize he’s younger than me,” Bucky said, bringing his coffee to his lips, taking a slow drink.

“I was born in eighty-one, if that makes you feel better.” Smirking, Natasha drank from her own cup. Bucky’s eyes widened.

“You’re older than me?”

“I look young for my age. But this isn’t about me, this is about Steve. And I’m surprised at you, James. For a man so infatuated with my best friend, you know _very_ little about him.” Bucky scoffed and smiled, but there was a burning in his chest; Natasha was right. He did know very little about Steve other than he was a porn star, an artist with a degree from college in art, was naturally a brunette, looked stunning both shaved and with a beard, and had a small scar on his hand.

“I know. Which is why I want to do something special. I want us to have a chance to really talk and get to know one another, to learn about the things that don’t come up when we’re dancing or having coffee, y’know?” Bucky said. His chest felt tight beneath his sweater, and he breathed slowly. Despite knowing good intentions, he still felt nervous around Natasha. She was impeccably smart and protective of Steve. _I have to do whatever I can to impress her._

“Why not just go on a coffee date and talk? Or have a movie-night at your apartment? Steve is a fairly simple guy, James; you don’t need to lavish him unnecessarily. Make him laugh and hold his hand and he’s yours.” It sounded so easy coming from Natasha.

“I just,” Bucky started, before trailing off, sliding his fingers across the back of his gloved hand. Natasha’s eyes followed the motion before looking back up to his face. “I want to do this right. I know Steve enjoys the simple things and that he’ll be happy no matter what, but I still want to… do good by him, if that makes sense.”

Natasha watched him for a long moment, her green eyes piercing as she folded her hands around her coffee cup. Under her gaze, Bucky felt small, and he swallowed thickly. He wanted to feel strong, and comfortable, and confident, and he wanted Steve to know the harder things about him, the things that weren’t easy or even remotely normal. Bucky could remember, so clearly, how Steve wanted him to feel _safe with him_. And, for the most part, Bucky did.

But he owed this to Steve, and himself.

They both took long sips of their coffee, and after a moment of silence Natasha spoke softly.

“James,” she began, folding her hands together, “listen to me; whatever you’re thinking, or feeling you owe to Steve, is foolish. Steve is a grown man who will care for and accept you no matter when or how you choose to share yourself with him. You’re not obligated to do anything for him other than get to know his fine and wonderful self. I can promise you, right now, that’s all he wants from you—to get to know you as _you’re_ ready to show him. You don’t need to force anything, or give more than you’re willing. Steve is patient, and kind, and putting yourself into a place that makes you anything less than genuine is a bigger disservice to him than showing your scars.”

Bucky sat for a moment, taking in all that Natasha had shared with him. _I really need to introduce her to Sam, I think they’d get along real fucking great_. She had a point, in the long run; he needed to trust Steve and trust his instincts, and making a show of everything he wanted to do and be wasn’t the way to do it.

Chewing gently on his lip, Bucky sighed quietly. “I… Yeah. You’re right.”

“That’s all you’re going to say?” Natasha mused, a small smile on her face.

“What else should I say?” Bucky inquired, looking up at her with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re the soldier, I expected you to be more… inquisitive. Not quite so ‘yes, ma’am’.” Bucky chuckled quietly, smoothing back the few strands of hair that had fallen from his ponytail.

“It was my job as a soldier to be exactly a ‘yes ma’am’ kind of person. You raised extremely valid points; you know Steve, as of right now, far better than I do. I am hoping to learn more about him, to know him better. And I can’t think of a better way to do that than take what you’ve just told me.”

“James,” Natasha said softly.

“Please, call me Bucky.” She eyed him, smirking softly.

“ _James_ ,” Bucky chuckled, shaking his head a little. _Stubborn_. “You’re so wound up and tight. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but Steve will never hurt you. You don’t have to be so formal, so romantic, or unlike yourself in order to impress him, or me. Fucking be _you_ , James.”

“Would it surprise you that I don’t know exactly who that is?” Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

“No. You’re a war vet suffering post-traumatic-stress-disorder. However, I know you are a dancer, you studied engineering and art, and you’re older than Steve but younger than me, so that, probably, puts you as an eight-two baby.” Bucky’s eyes widened and he gaped, laughing quietly.

“I know Steve told you some of that but my birthday?”

“Lucky guess. I’m a great listener. I can be extremely observant when I need to be; or even when I want to. You’re most likely right handed or ambidextrous, but since coming home from war you favor your right side due to an accident that has marred your left, specifically your left arm and hand. Also, whatever happened was major, because I can see scars running along the left side of your neck, no doubt spanning down further, perhaps to your leg—you’re stiff on the left side when you walk, but probably not when you dance because maybe you forget about it. Shall I go on or would you like to be the one to inform me more about yourself?”

“I’m right hand dominant but I am ambidextrous when using firearms and knives. Part of military training.” Bucky didn’t even have time to be astonished by Natasha’s newfound level of Sherlockian badassery. He could save that for later.

“What was your favorite firearm?”

“Sniper rifle, with .338 Lapua Magnum cartridges. Intended for long-range.”

“Keen eye, then?”

“Not keen enough to see how foolish I am for being so nervous around you and Steve.” Natasha’s lips curled upward, and she took a drink from her cup.

“Not so chilly anymore, huh, James? For a man so good at sniping, you must be boss at paintball.”

“I haven’t been since I was in college, before I went to war. I can’t imagine what it’d be like now with what I know.”   Natasha’s smiled turned dark.

“We should go sometime. You, me, and Steve.”

“Unless we’re doing one on one on one, I can’t imagine how that’s going to work. I know someone who could join us—and, actually, I’ve been meaning to introduce you to him.” Natasha’s eyebrow raised.

“Is that so?”

“His name’s Sam. He’s my therapist.”

“Isn’t there some conduct that you’re not supposed to commune with your therapist outside of sessions?”

“He’s not a typical, traditional, suit-therapist. He was a soldier too, a long time ago. But I think you two would get along great; you’re very similar in how you handle my bullshit.” Natasha laughed quietly.

“Perhaps I should start charging you for these meetings then, James?”

“I leave that to your discretion. Paintballing sounds fun, though. I think we should do it.”

“You’ll have to let Steve know. He’s busier than I am most days, working on a new film with Brock.”

“Rumlow?” Bucky inquired. “The guy Steve worked with in _Longest Yard_?”

Natasha smiled. “That’s the one. They’re doing one about fucking… superheroes or some shit. Something to really get the nerdy boys and girls going or some shit like that.”

Bucky smirked. “Sounds like fun.”

Natasha eyed him, a smirk spreading across her face. “Ask Steve sometime how fun it is. He just might show you.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we return to our scheduled smut ;)

_Natasha’s quite a firecracker. You didn’t warn me properly._ Bucky texted Steve the next morning, curled around his pillow with a blanket tangled around his legs. The night before he’d tried to get some sleep but had been unable to as dreams plagued him, and so when five-thirty rolled around, Bucky decided to give a big fat _fuck you_ to sleep, and he texted Steve instead.

He didn’t expect him to be awake, however. And he was even more surprised when Steve called.

“’M sorry, should’ve told ya,” there was a roughness to Steve’s voice, as well as an octave and a half drop that indicated Bucky had either woken Steve from sleep, or Steve was on the verge of falling asleep. Either way he spun it, Bucky could hear exhaustion in Steve’s voice, and he immediately felt a twist of guilt in his gut.

“Shit, Steve, I’m sorry, were you sleeping? Or trying to? Either way, please, get some rest…” His throat felt tight and he held his phone close to his ear, staring up at his ceiling. He could just imagine Steve now, hair tossled and eyes heavy, half-lidded if not closed completely, lazily holding his phone.

“Nah, nah,” Steve yawned, and Bucky smiled miserably, palming a hand over his eyes before tucking it under his head, “you’re fine, Buck. I need to get up and go running anyway.”

“You, running? Aren’t you fit enough for the both of us?” Steve chuckled quietly, sniffling softly on the end of the line. _Allergies? Or a cold? Maybe just a stuffy nose, who knows? I should ask._

“Gotta stay in shape, soldier boy. Fitness is a process, not a destination. Much like other things like, fucking, peace or some shit.” Bucky smiled softly, letting his eyes close a little as he listened to the soft hum of Steve’s voice and breathing.

“Didn’t take you for a crack-ass-of-dawn runner though.” Steve hummed at that, and Bucky smiled.

“Running early in the morning is the best way to start the day, or so I’ve heard. Something about the endorphins helping you get energy for the day. I don’t know. Plus it’s not hot, people aren’t really out and about. It’s kind of nice, actually, once you get past the burn of not being able to fucking breathe.” Steve mused.

“Speaking of not being able to breathe—you sniffled? Are you alright?” Steve laughed, and Bucky found himself blushing faintly.

“Aww, look at you, soldier boy, worrying for my well-being. That’s so fucking cute. Nah, yeah, I’m okay. My nose sometimes gets stuffy in the morning, and I should probably take allergy medicine. Might be in shape and gorgeous as fuck but, shit, allergies knock me flat on my ass.” Grinning faintly, Bucky tried imagining Steve will red, puffy eyes, tissues, and constantly sneezing. For anyone else, it would’ve been an image best left alone, but there was something endearing about the idea.

“You curse a lot when you’re tired.” Bucky commented, and Steve snorted.

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“You should. Some people say it’s improper.”

“Fuck those people.” Bucky laughed, rolling onto his side, tucking his phone against his pillow with his head over it, freeing his hands and relaxing his arms. There was a small shift on the other end and Steve yawned again, shuffling around before cursing quietly as he, quite possibly, ran into some furniture or object.

“Turn on a light if you can’t see.”

“Fuck you, I can see just— _fuck_ , that’s a shoe.” Steve grumbled, and Bucky chuckled quietly.

“What did I just say?”

“Fuck you, soldier boy.”

“Aww, someone’s grumpy in the morning.”

“You’d be grumpy too if you’d been taking pictures and fucking all day yesterday and then had to get up at—what fucking time is—it’s five-forty-five, the fuck? Barnes, what are you doing awake at five-fucking-forty-five in the morning? Shouldn’t you be sleeping like a rock or some shit?”

“Couldn’t.” Bucky said, not realizing how flat his tone suddenly became. There was silence, and Steve cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry,” biting his lip, Bucky closed his eyes. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I… There’s really not much to say. Just bad dreams about being overseas.”

“Something bad?” Steve mused, and Bucky chewed his lip, swallowing slowly.

“Yeah. My convoy, the night we were attacked. All I could see was fire and snow.” On the end, Steve hissed quietly, before breathing slowly.

“Shit… I’m sorry, Buck, I didn’t mean to seem insensitive or anything.”

“It’s not your fault. You asked a valid question pertaining to my sleep. And, quite honestly, last night was the first night in like a week or so that I haven’t slept well, so it’s okay. I’m getting better.”

“You still sleeping on the floor?” Steve asked, and Bucky smiled.

“Yeah, I am. It’s more comfortable. I’m still seriously contemplating getting rid of my bed.”

“Nah, don’t do that. You’re gonna need it someday.” Steve said, and Bucky rolled his eyes.

“You keep saying that, and I haven’t used it yet. I’m starting to think you’re stalling me from getting rid of it so you can use it yourself.” Steve chuckled, his voice low and heavy, and Bucky felt a shiver racing down his spine.

“Well, shit, you’ve gone and figured out my master plan. Now I’m gonna have to think of somewhere else to have my passionate way with you if the opportunity arises.” Bucky raised an eyebrow, shifting back onto his back and holding his phone against his ear.

“If?”

“Well, partner permitting.” Steve mused, and Bucky could hear the small smile in his tone.

“Pending permission,” Bucky teased, and Steve made a soft ‘aww’ sound, before the sound of water churned on the other end. “Getting ready for a shower, or something?”

“Nah, just getting water on my face to wake up,” there was a moment between words where the sound of water shifted, and there was splashing. Steve cursed again, something about the water being more frigid than a bitch, and the phone rustled before he spoke again, “y’know, my apartment is decent, but the water doesn’t warm up for shit.”

“Mine does,” Bucky commented, almost without thought.

“Fuck, I’m gonna start showering at your place, soldier boy.” Bucky smirked, biting his lip again as he shifted on the floor.

“I don’t know, it might get too hot for your liking.”

“I don’t think I’d mind so long as that ‘too hot’ bit includes your sexy ass.” Bucky blushed, wishing that Steve were there so he could hit him. Gently.

“Steve Rogers, you are impossible.”

“James Buchanan Barnes—you’re probably right, but I still think you’re gorgeous as fuck.” _Fucking— this man_.

“Mmm, you should do that again.” Bucky said, tucking his feet up a little, bending his knees some.

“Do what, soldier boy?”

“Say my name.” Steve made a sound akin to purring.

“ _James. Buchanan. Barnes_.” Bucky sighed, resting his right hand on his abdomen.

“How can you make saying my name so fucking hot? It’s not fucking fair.” Steve laughed quietly on the other end, and there was a soft rustling before he spoke again.

“You should say my name, and we can compare who says whose better.”

“What’s your full name?”

“Steven Grant Rogers.” Bucky smiled, shifting in his makeshift bedding, his fingers teasing the hem of his cut off sweats.

“Steven Grant Rogers…” he said, trailing off a little. Steve’s breath came out soft but stuttered, and a quiet _mmm_ , followed.

“Fuck…” There was a shift, and Steve cursed again, though much quieter this time. Bucky’s eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head slightly to look at his phone in his peripheral, listening quietly at the softness of shifting, and Steve’s quiet breathing.

“Steven. Grant. Rogers.” He said again, firmer this time, and Steve sighed again, giving a quick intake of breath before silence followed. “ _Steve_.”

“Y-yeah…”

“Oh, my God. Are you jacking off right now?”

“Fuck, yeah.” Bucky’s cock gave a twitch, and he found himself breathless. Perhaps Steve had been in a mood from waking up to begin with, because he couldn’t imagine saying Steve’s full name alone would make the porn star hard enough to need to jack off, especially when Bucky was still on the line and _able to hear everything—oh, my God_.

“Steve,” Bucky all but moaned, his fingers skittering under his cut offs, brushing over his cock lightly. Only half-hard, but excited none the less, and filling with life quicker each moment. “Shit, really…”

“Yeah, James,” closing his eyes, Bucky shifting, slowly curling his fingers around himself slowly, licking his lips quickly.

“Fuck,” Bucky mumbled. On the other end, Steve moaned softly, and Bucky felt another tremor racing. It was one thing to hear Steve’s moans on film, where it may or may not have been entirely real and pleasurable. But this was different. This was right in his fucking ear, this was Steve jacking off knowing full well that Bucky could hear him intimately; this was fucking Steve Rogers jacking off and saying Bucky’s name.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve groaned quietly, and Bucky sprang to life almost immediately. If not for the fact that it was so fucking hot, he would’ve been embarrassed.

“Yeah, I’m here, Steve,” Bucky said, curling his hand a little tighter, giving himself a good couple of strokes. He licked his lips again and moaned quietly.

“ _Fuck,_ can—can you say my name again? God, it sounds so good in your voice.” Bucky’s face flamed, and he breathed slowly.

“ _Steven Grant Rogers_.” On the end, Steve moaned— _loudly_. “God-fucking-damn, Steve…”

“ _Fuck yeah, Buck_ , oh…”

“Shit, how close are you?” Steve made a sound that was a cross being a shameless moan and a laugh.

“Real fucking close.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Your hand instead of mine on my cock… hearing you say my name is like having you whispering it in my ear right now and—oh, _fuck_ , Bucky I’m… ah…” Bucky bit his lip, stroking himself harder, feeling precum slicking under his fingers and pressing to the fabric of his sweats.

“Fuck, yeah, Steve,” he moaned, pumping harder on himself, “gonna come for me, Rogers? Gonna come all over the fucking place and make a mess of yourself?”

“Yessir,” Steve moaned, and Bucky’s eyes rolled back a little as a wave of pleasure nearly finished him right then. _Oh, fuck me_.

“Fucking come for me, Stevie. I wanna hear my name on those lips as you do.” Steve made soft, stuttered moans, and Bucky could almost hear his hand on his dick as Steve grew louder and more strained. Before—ahh—

“F-fuck— _James!!_ ”

Bucky might’ve been embarrassed for coming so soon, but this was Steve jacking off and saying his name while coming. And there was no fucking shame in that.

There were several minutes of heavy breathing returning to normal, before both Steve and Bucky went silent. Biting his lip, Bucky looked down at himself, seeing the mess in his sweats and on his lower stomach, and he wondered what kind of mess Steve had made of himself, how far his cum might’ve gone.

“Well,” Steve said after a while, “good morning, soldier boy.” Bucky laughed.

“Good morning, Mr. Rogers,” Bucky mused, smiling brightly.

“Now that our daily jerk is out of the way, what have you got planned?”

“I hadn’t thought about it. Though, I did talk to Nat the other day and she suggested paintballing. You down for that?”

“Fuck yeah, I am. Any chance to nail your sweet ass, and I’m for it.”

“Loser buys dinner.”

“You’re on, soldier boy.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note: the song Bucky is hearing in the first round is "The Phoenix" by Fall Out Boy. Originally, I was thinking of "Panic Attack" by Dream Theatre strictly for the musical opening, but after reviewing the lyrics I decided that it would be too potentially triggering for Bucky and opted against it.

It had taken some convincing on Bucky’s part to get Sam involved in the group paintballing session, but eventually he was able to make it happen. Conveniently, Sam’s day off happened to be the same as Steve’s, and Natasha had the perfect place in mind for their little adventure of guns and paint outside of Brooklyn.

Roughly ten in the morning, dressed in cargo pants, a pair of worn down boots, a long sleeved shirt, a light jacket, gloves on both hands and his hair pulled back, Bucky watched the trees pass by as Sam pulled into a small, shaded gravel space next to another vehicle—the sleek black sports car that Bucky had come to associate with Natasha. The trunk was open and Natasha and Steve were standing over it, heads ducked down as they rummaged with items.

Slipping out once the engine had been cut, Bucky made his way over to where Steve and Natasha were standing. The brunette lifted his head, giving Bucky a warm and affectionate smile before stepping away from Natasha’s side, coming over to kiss him softly.

“Good morning,” Steve said, and Bucky smiled, his right palm resting against Steve’s hip.

“Good morning to you, too. And you, Natasha,” Bucky said over Steve’s shoulder. The red head lifted in a small nod, but was otherwise preoccupied with the items in her trunk.

“So I understand Sam joined you?” Steve inquired just as Sam, adorned in dark jeans, a black hoodie, and gloves came around the bend of his car.

“I did indeed,” Sam said, extending a hand, “you must be Steve, right?”

“I am, yeah. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam.” Steve smiled, shaking Sam’s hand.

“Pleasure’s all mine. Bucky talks quite often about you.” Steve gave Bucky a glance, and Bucky grinned softly.

“Only good things, I promise,” Bucky assured, before walking around Steve to join Natasha at her side. “So, what’s our plan today, Miss Romanoff?”

“We’ll go in pairs; the objective is going to be like capture the flag as well as marking the opposing team. First round can be you and Sam against me and Steve. Then Sam and I, you and Steve, then you and I, and Sam and Steve. I understand you told Steve that the loser buys dinner, so whoever has the most points between the two of you wins. Sam and I can be exempt from this side game.” Natasha said, her hands sorting pouches of paintballs between the four guns.

They were each relatively small; smaller than any real firearm that Bucky had used in his time of service. But they possessed fairly long barrels and looked to be held in two hands as opposed to one. Bucky took one in his grasp, finding it light weight without the CO2 tank or hopper, but the additions of them wouldn’t be so significant. He set it back when he glanced at one with a large shoulder stock and a barrel that was easily twice the length, a scope planted on top.

Natasha eyed him as he took it into hand, resting the stock against both left and right shoulders, testing the scope and the weight. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her smiling as she continued sorting colors. “You mentioned you were a sniper, and I had a friend who had a RAP4 sniper paintball gun. I asked if I could borrow it today; so long as you treat her nicely, he has no objections to you using her today. If nothing else, this is a good opportunity to see if you’re as good a shot as you say you are.”

Bucky glanced over at her in wonder, smiling softly. “Thank you, Nat,” he said, looking over the gun more closely. “I appreciate that.”

“This means, however, that you can only use the sniper. I brought four semi-automatics that can be single-handed, or held in both hands, and this sniper. If you’re using it, you just get the one, and the opposite team gets to have three guns instead of two.”

It was a dilemma, but Bucky knew he was a better shot with a sniper than anything else; he would be able to hole up in a vantage point, keep a close eye on Sam on the ground below as well as being mindful of their surroundings. There were so many opportunities playing into his favor with the sniper. So he held it close and nodded once, and somewhere behind him Sam went _Aww shit_.

“Then it’s settled,” Natasha said with a smile, “Steve and I will take blue, you and Sam take red. The round is over when both players on the same team have been marked and—or—the opposing team’s flag has been captured _and_ returned to the center of the arena. This way, if one player from each team is still unmarked, and the flag has been captured, it can be recaptured by its owner. Sound fair?”

“Sounds fair,” Bucky said, twisting his canister of CO2 into place before grabbing his hopper of red paintballs.

“One more thing; points for you and Steve will be based on who gets marked. If you get marked but Sam scores the flag, you still have a personal loss against you; if Steve isn’t marked in a round, it’s a personal win. Whoever gets marked the least between the two of you wins.”

 

* * *

 

Natasha had a wireless stereo set up in the center of their makeshift arena—a football-field’s worth of trees, brush, rocks, and open grass—with a remote control to stop and start music. The rules were simple: Each team had a minute to pick their designated starting spots, the first team to either mark all players of the opposing team or successfully capture the flag was the winner. Since the players rotated, the individual(s) with the highest scoring points from their three teams would be considered the winner(s). For Bucky and Steve, whoever had the lesser amounts of points between the two of them would buy dinner.

Bucky wasted no time once Natasha started the initial song, indicating they had one minute to find a vantage point to start at. It was like being back in basic but without the incessant shouting from drill sergeants or the danger that loomed ahead with being deployed. This was the _fun_ part that Bucky had missed; the familiar adrenaline of running out and taking up his mantle in a tree, out of sight, waiting.

He and Sam had only briefly discussed their plan— _I’ll take up a place as high as I can, and you stay on the ground. I’ll cover you while you go for their flag_. The flags were neon-colored clothes that, no doubt, Natasha had bought from a dollar store. They were thin and scratchy at first, and Bucky had taken special care to hide his behind a boulder with some foliage to keep it out of sight before taking up his post in a high tree with dozens of branches spanning every which way.

He was embarrassed, and would never admit it, but he found himself a little winded and stiff from climbing, and had to take a short respite before hearing the music cut out in the distance. The first minute was up; there would be a ten second delay before the next song would start, and the round would officially begin.

Breathing lightly, Bucky curled in on himself, scanning across the low-lying trees and rocks. Down below and some thirty feet away, Sam was tucked under a tree branch, hiding behind some foliage for cover. Their flag was below and to the left of Bucky’s tree. In the distance he could see the stereo sitting on a rock, designating the center of their arena.

The music started again, a quick repetition of something instrumental followed by drums and a _Put on your war paint,_ and Bucky had to consciously keep himself in check to avoid rocking out; any major or even subtle movements from his position could ruin him, and he’d be a joke of this game of theirs. No, he couldn’t allow enjoyment, especially from this _seriously kick ass song, my God_.

Swallowing thickly, he hunkered down further on his tree branch, pressing the stock of his sniper paintball rifle to his right shoulder, scanning across the arena for any movements. It felt so good and familiar to be back into something that Bucky was good at; like dancing, he knew he could scope and snipe for the rest of his life without ever breaking stride in excellence.

In the back of his mind there was a tug of ache and distress, but he swallowed again and focused, raising his barrel a little and checking the scope on the top of the gun. Across the arena and past the stereo, there was only a brush of foliage and bushes in the wind; but Bucky kept himself still, watching through the glass.

After a moment, there was a flash of movement, and he tracked it, watching Steve dart across from one tree to another. He moved fast, keeping low as he went. At some point since parting from the car, Steve had pulled a black beanie over his gold-brown hair, and had added a heavy green jacket. Had Bucky not been focused, and good at what he does, he may have missed Steve slipping through a bush.

Smiling, he waited, finger ready on the trigger of his rifle. But Steve was still several dozen yards away, and Bucky had not yet seen sight of Natasha. He knew that Sam would be off, going after the flag, and thus leaving Bucky without a lookout on the ground. But his tree was dense, and Bucky was very good at being quietly patient.

Scoping across the yard, Bucky caught sight of a curl of red hair; Natasha had, also, adorned a black cap to cover her hair, which had been pulled into a ponytail beneath it. She was much closer than Steve was, gaining fast past the stereo. The way she kept low and looked about left Bucky to assume that she was planning to sneak by. But she knew that Bucky had the sniper, and knew that he would stay high up.

Smirking, Bucky sighted on a tree root just in front of Natasha’s feet, firing. The red paint splattered on the root and caused Natasha to jump back. She might consider it a failed shot, but for Bucky it was a warning. _Keep dancing, little spider. Keep dancing on the edge of_ my _web._

Shifting his sight, Bucky caught Steve behind a tree, peering around. He could see Steve’s blue eyes narrowing as he tucked against the tree, bringing his gun around to focus on Sam, who was darting under a bush less than two dozen feet away. Licking his lips, Bucky focused and steadied his breathing, and just as Steve leaned out to fire, Bucky squeezed the trigger, watching as Steve stumbled back as red paint splattered across his right shoulder and bicep.

One down. One to go.

Shifting again, Bucky found Natasha darting around the rocks beneath his tree, looking up in search of Bucky’s shadow. Smirking softly, Bucky angled his gun and fired again, clipping her on the left shoulder, paint spraying down her front and along the side of her neck. Below, she cursed, pressing a button on the remote in her jacket pocket to stop the music.

Round one had ended.

 

* * *

 

“So what’s our plan, soldier boy?” Steve commented, still dabbing at the paint on his jacket sleeve with a wet cloth. Bucky couldn’t help the smile on his face that remained long after initially shooting Steve.

“Well, I don’t think it’d be exactly fair if I hogged the sniper for all three rounds, as I could easily continue hiding in trees until everyone was splattered. So, I think we’ll both remain on the ground for this one and tag team it. You find Natasha and take her out, and I’ll take care of Sam, unless one of us gets the flag first and takes it back to the center.” Bucky said, loading a few more paintballs into his hopper, holding his significantly smaller and lighter gun at his side.

Beside him, Steve grinned, and gave him a kiss.

And, surprisingly, their plan had not worked quite in Bucky’s favor.

It had started out well, with the two of them keeping to shade and foliage to the best of their abilities. But Bucky had wandered into a patch of sunlight and took a streak of blue across the front of his chest and left shoulder—and for a moment he’d forgotten to breathe at the sight of ink, suddenly seeming red, on his clothes. Steve, God bless him, had ducked beneath a bush as Bucky slumped against a tree, and talked him through his breathing until Bucky nodded slowly.

Steve had been a trooper, taking Sam on in a blind one-on-one battle before hitting the man in the leg. And, though Bucky couldn’t easily see the exchange, he could hear the sassing between Steve and Natasha before Natasha shouted in defeat, and Steve personally escorted her and her flag to the center. Red was caked across Natasha’s left butt-cheek.

 

* * *

 

The third round came, and this time Bucky was partnered with Natasha, while Sam and Steve were calling themselves the Super Squad.

In his gut, Bucky could feel a twist. He was competitive by nature, and knowing that both he and Steve had one mark on them each only made the tightness worse. Bucky might’ve been on the winning team twice now, but Sam had still nicked him in that last round, and Steve still had red from Bucky’s shot in the first.

Licking his lips, Bucky opted to take up the sniper one more time on the condition that he couldn’t hide in a tree. He had to move to a new location every minute. For this round, there would be no music, only a timer connected to the stereo to release a beeping noise once every sixty seconds as Bucky’s cue.

Fortunately, Steve had been nice enough to give him a small kiss before the competition began.

Keeping close to Natasha’s side as they ran to their initial positions, Bucky scoured the arena for all possible places he could duck and hide behind or near. Being on the ground was different than being in a tree, and while Bucky could track equally well, he felt more secure in a tree with the cover of brush and branches. Which was exactly why he was forbidden from climbing any such points.

“Sam is going to be on the move almost immediately,” Natasha said softly as she ducked behind a tree, checking her hopper again. They’d hidden their flag under a nearby tree root that could only be seen by running past it and then going in the opposite direction again. “He’s going to come zig-zagging through, hoping to throw you off or take you by surprise. He’ll be easy to spot, though; he’s not exactly light-footed.”

Bucky glanced over at her, thankful the minute-music hadn’t yet subsided. “How the hell do you know all of this? Just from teaming up with him in the last round?”

Natasha smiled, “Like it’s hard to observe people?”

“You take it to some like spy-shit level, is all,” Bucky said, chuckling as he curled against a boulder, peering around to see nothing but dirt and tree and grass.

“Well, you have your talents, and I have mine,” she said simply. Bucky glanced over at her.

“Don’t tell me, you’re secretly like CIA or something.” Natasha smiled; had the music not ended, she might’ve even laughed.

“No.” She said, darting off to put distance between herself and Bucky.

True enough, within a few minutes—and new positions—Bucky could see Sam darting back and forth between trees and rocks, his eyes searching both high and low for Bucky. Licking his lips slowly, Bucky took his sight, staying low to the ground; when Sam stepped down less than thirty feet away, Bucky fired, and Sam cried out in distress and defeat as red paint spat across the denim on his calf.

But his victory was short lived; Bucky heard a quiet snap and rolled away just in time to miss a splatter of blue paint where his back had once been. Nearby, Steve had sighted on him and was coming in close. Bringing his rifle round, Bucky aimed, and both he and Steve stopped at once.

With the light coming through the trees, and the shadows casting across Steve’s face under the beanie, Bucky almost felt fear. Steve’s eyes were hard, his jaw set, a darkness in his features that left Bucky feeling twisted and cold. His throat felt tight as he examined Steve’s face, and the brunette lowered his gun slowly, before relaxing. Whatever doubt might’ve lingered in Bucky’s gut could no longer remain; Steve might not have voiced it, but there was no denying it in Bucky’s mind: The man had been a soldier.

“You can surrender and pay for dinner tonight, or we can make this difficult,” Steve said, his voice hard even as a smile crept across his features.

“Surrender’s not exactly in my nature,” Bucky mused, fighting his own smile as he tightened his grip, pressing the stock to his shoulder. He had a perfect shot to hit Steve in the gut. But if—and he was quite certain, really—his suspicion of Steve’s military service was correct, the man would catch the tightening of his finger over the trigger, and they’d end up firing at the same time.

He’d need to stall Steve as long as possible, and hope to God that Natasha would make her way around.

“That’s unfortunate, soldier boy,” Steve chuckled, keeping his gun trained on Bucky’s chest. “I was fully prepared to let you walk away without a mark on the honor that you’d take the loss. But it seems you like getting splattered with paint, huh?”

“Could be worse, I suppose. Though it could be better, too.” Behind Steve, and in the corner of Bucky’s eye, was a flash of red hair, and a neon cloth tucked into her belt.

“Better? How so?”

“You could be the one with paint.” Steve frowned as Natasha purposefully stepped on a twig, making it snap. Steve wheeled, aiming on her as Bucky seized his chance, firing at Steve’s turned backside, splattering his entire ass with red paint.

The shrill _You motherfuckers!_ would resonate in Bucky’s mind until kingdom come.


	28. Chapter 28

“I still can’t believe you and Nat ganged up on me. She’s never gotten the jump on me before, and—goddamn, Barnes, that was so not fair,” Steve whined, and Bucky stifled his quiet laughter into the back of his hand, his cellphone pressed to his ear as he curled around his pillow a little more.

“I do believe you had commented that you wanted an opportunity to _nail my ass_ , Mr. Rogers,” Bucky teased, and Steve made a sound caught between a groan and a laugh, “And, I’m sorry, whose ass was nailed?”

“Fuck you, Bucky,” Steve chortled, and Bucky snickered quietly, bringing his hand up and behind his head, staring at the darkness of his ceiling.

“Dinner was delicious, though,” said Bucky, licking his lips before biting gently on the corner, letting his eyes close as he pictured the few hours before; Steve had dressed plainly, though still managed to blow Bucky’s mind with his beauty. Well-fitted jeans, a vee-neck tee-shirt and dark cardigan went a long way for the brunette, who had freshly shaven for the evening and fluffed his hair to the side. “You should wear vee-necks more often. They’re very flattering on you.”

“And I think you’re biased, but that’s alright,” Steve murmured. Bucky heard a small shift of sheets and blankets, and he pictured Steve rolling back and forth, trying to be comfortable in his bed. “One of these days I’d like to see you in something other than a sweater, though. Don’t get me wrong, you rock them better than anyone I’ve ever known, but I’m starting to think your wardrobe only consists of sweaters, jeans, and wool coats. And gloves.”

Bucky’s face flamed and his heart lodged uncomfortably in his throat, and he licked his lips again, breathing slowly. He knew what Steve was hinting at, and while there was a considerable amount of him wanting to oblige, the itch to hide and cower remained, and Bucky inhaled deeply. “I know,” he said, chewing his lip slowly. “Someday. I promise.”

“I know, Buck,” Steve mused, his voice softer, gentler, “I don’t mean any rush; I know it can be difficult.” How was it that this man seemed to know so intimately what Bucky was hiding without even really know what Bucky was hiding? No matter how they danced around the truth of Bucky’s arm, Steve’s intuition was soft and patient and his words matched.

“It’s,” Bucky’s voice cracked, and he swallowed, dragging his tongue along his bottom lip before continuing, “it’s not like I don’t want to—I do. Sort of. But it’s complicated. And it’s… well, it’s different.”

“Different? If I may—how?” Bucky swallowed again, calming the racing of his heart with steady breathing.

“It’s not—mine. Not really.”

On the end, Steve made a quiet _ahhh_ sound, and Bucky blinked back the white fuzziness that was creeping along the edges of his vision. His heart would not calm, and he breathed as slow, deep, and evenly as possible. It was hard—it had taken him months to talk to Sam about it, let alone show him, and here he was describing his arm to Steve. Describing how it wasn’t his, how it wasn’t even human, and yet… yet it was. It _was_ his; it _functioned_ like his original, flesh arm, it _sensed_ —sort of—like his original arm.

“So it’s prosthetic.” Steve said, short and soft. Bucky inhaled shakily, and sighed slowly.

“Yeah. Sort of. It’s hard to explain. It’s… it is, but it’s not. It’s way more than anything like that. Out of fucking _Terminator_ , feels like.” Steve chucked after Bucky spoke, but there was a hint, a hitch to his voice, that Bucky trembled from. Was it curiosity or despair?

“Time and courage providing,” Steve began, letting his words settle, “I would like to see it. It sounds like it must be pretty weighty, both physically and mentally. But I’m sure it’s something to behold.”

Bucky smiled, blinking away a warm wetness that invaded his eyes and he sighed heavily, “Maybe, yeah. I mean…” he swallowed, voice shaking, “It’s been a part of me for… fuck… I… I don’t even know anymore,” that was a lie. He knew; the arm had been his, attached, for nearly three years. The bone and skin grafts, the metal, the scars and weight was all his, forevermore. “And like… I’m still getting used to it. I’m still trying—”

“Trying to see past the horror and see the good of it?” Steve finished, and Bucky choked quietly. _This fucking man._

“Yeah. Fuck, Steve—I… I have to ask. And I wish I would have at dinner, but we were having such a good time and I didn’t want anything heavy to come up, but I just… I need to know.”

“Know what, Bucky?”

“When we were out paintballing, and it was that last round. You—fuck, you moved with stealth, like nothing I’ve ever seen out of someone who might just paintball recreationally. You had _tactic_ , you moved with light feet and silent breath. I _fucking know_ how that’s done, Steve. And the way you came up on me at the end, you had this look on your face, and the way you held your gun and… Steve…”

“Bucky.” There was a smile to Steve’s voice. But there was a twist, too. And it made Bucky ache terribly.

“Just tell me: were you a soldier once? At any point in your life?”

His heart was in his throat as he waited; and it felt like forever just listening to his heart and the shakiness of his breath and the silence on the end of the line. And he wondered in that moment if he’d asked the wrong question, if it was too tender, or if he was completely off. He wondered if he was making a fool of himself, or making a fool of who he thought Steve was. But there _was no mistaking_ , Steve had the look, he had the movement, the way he just _knew_ Bucky’s life and his problems. The fucker knew what needed to be done to help him sleep, he knew what it meant to be patient and kind and not look at Bucky like a broken toy.

And that only comes from one thing.

“Yes. I was. A few years back.”

Bucky blinked, finding that tears had already fallen despite not knowing quite why he was crying to begin with. It didn’t feel like relief, but neither was he perturbed. It made sense, and yet Bucky was sad all the same; that a man so perfect and so kind as Steve, as beautiful and talented, had to go through something that may not have been good. Bucky never knew a soldier to have had a good service, fulfilling a duty without some kind of horror or demeaning moment, and knowing now, officially, that Steve had _suffered_ just destroyed him.

“When?” He asked, trying not to sound so broken and emotionally exhausted. Knowing that Steve had served twisted Bucky’s insides; all the same, it was gratifying to understand Steve’s knowledge of recovery and time.

“Two-thousand-six, just before I turned twenty-two,” Steve said slowly, his voice cool and calm. But it was calmness without serenity, like Steve was only collected because he had to be. _This can’t be easy; this can’t be any easier for him than me, and yet I’m the emotional wreck. Fuck, Steve…_

“Jesus,” Bucky breathed, wiping away his sloppy tears and sniffles with the back of his hand. “Till when? What—what unit? I mean I know there are bases and shit everywhere but I…”

“Two-thousand-nine; I was dishonorably discharged for inappropriate conduct and behavior when my sexuality became known to my squadron and commanding officer, since it was during fucking DADT. I was with special services, third battalion; night-and-field-ops and whatnot, y’know.” God, Steve’s voice was monotonous, and it sent chills down Bucky’s spine. He was too cool, too reserved, and the more he spoke the more Bucky’s being and soul clenched and writhed.

“Fuck… fuck, I’m sorry, I know this can’t be easy, or anything,” Bucky mumbled, and Steve chuckled, but it was empty and flat.

“It’s alright, Bucky. I mean, yeah, I don’t really like talking about it. It was a period of my life that, honestly, I hated. But I went in with personal motives and I did it to help protect people. I can’t stand bullies, and what made me upset most was that the biggest bullies I faced were the men I was _supposed_ to trust with my life and not the people overseas that I was _told_ to fucking fear and loathe.”

Closing his eyes, Bucky could see it; Steve in uniform, pacing around his base and fighting off members of his own team from others less fortunate to be the brunt of their harassment; Steve picking fights in the dining hall at the hashing of hurtful, ignorant words; Steve gritting his teeth as his commanding officer tells him it’s none of his business, he needs to leave the others well enough alone and let them be themselves because _Steve, deep down we’re just boys and girls, and boys will be boys and girls will be girls, so shut the fuck up and keep out of trouble_ ; Steve told to be trained on the brown-skinned enemy when the person he trusts least is standing right beside him; Steve being told to break himself down into a careless, empty, apathetic shell of a man instead of the compassionate, bright, passionate, beautiful man he really is.

Breathing slowly, Bucky traced his lower lip with his tongue, running over the sore patch where his teeth had scraped and chewed. Another part of him was seeing Steve as he knew him, but in uniform; Steve with burning eyes and a wide smile as he joked and grew close and fond of those he protected; Steve drawing in his bunk the soft eyes and broad shoulders of the other men at base; Steve taking private time to himself or with another closeted and willing soldier because fuck it there’s _no_ saying they’ll live to see tomorrow and why the fuck _not_ get at least one good blowjob in before they go out tomorrow?

In equal measure, Bucky both suffered empathetically with Steve, and wanted nothing more than for that fucker to tower over him in uniform and call him _private_.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said after a long while, and Steve inhaled.

“It’s not your fault, Buck. It’s not like you made my service hell. There were some good things to come out of it, some good friends and people. But it’s not something I would ever do again.”

“I don’t blame you,” Bucky allowed a small, sad smile. “Thank you for telling me.”

“You’re welcome. I’ve… I’ve been meaning to tell you, really. I had a feeling you were starting to catch on with everything, and if I’m being honest I’m surprised you didn’t bring it up sooner. But, I think if you had, I wouldn’t have told you.”

“Why’s that?” Bucky could imagine simply enough, and he understood perfectly.

“Because I don’t know that I would’ve been ready. Yeah, I served and got out five years ago, but I still wake up cold with sweat and unable to breathe, I can still see the first person I ever… shot. He—he was bad, he had a gun, and he was going to hurt people, but it didn’t _feel_ good or right; I didn’t go in wanting to kill people. I just wanted to protect those who couldn’t defend themselves.”

“Part of me wishes you could’ve been here, with me, to share this…” Bucky mused, and Steve hummed.

“Why’s that, soldier boy?”

“Cause I would’ve fucking kissed the shit out of you to make up for it.” Steve laughed, genuine, light, and not like the cold and hard that had possessed his voice before. The ache in Bucky’s gut and throat lightened just from the sound of it.

“Maybe when next I see you, you can. Lord knows I’m due for a good, passionate kiss from my favorite soldier.”

Bucky’s face flamed, “Kiss ass. What was your position?”

“Intelligence sergeant,” Steve murmured, “what about you, soldier boy?”

“Private, first class,” Bucky said softly. Had he not become a prisoner of war, he might have climbed higher.

“Fancy,” Steve chuckled.

“Not as fucking fancy as being in special forces, _soldier boy_.”

“Hey, now,” Steve laughed, and Bucky grinned, “that’s my nickname for you. You’ve got to think of something else.”

“Well… nah, it wouldn’t fit. Not for your title, anyway.”

“What are you thinking?”

“If I’m soldier boy, you can be Captain.”

“Captain Rogers. Sounds much better than _Mr_. Rogers.”

“Aww, not a fan of being reminded of cardigans and going on field trips?”

“Not particularly,” Bucky chuckled softly.

“It’s okay, Captain,” he said, “I wasn’t too fond of it, either.”


	29. Chapter 29

Bucky decided in the late morning after a pleasant stroll down his street that he would pay Gwen a visit. It had been over three weeks since he’d last seen her, and a part of him felt guilty for this disservice. After all it _had_ been Gwen and her little shop that had gotten him to Steve and Natasha in the first place, and to go so long without even saying hello was beyond rude.

Dressed plainly in jeans, a shirt and jacket, and his glove, Bucky strolled up the stairs to the front door of her shop, before slipping inside. The bell above the door jingled, and there was a quiet rustling across the threshold as Bucky slid the door shut. The shop itself was brightly lit with a few windows open near the front and orange-yellow lamps dotting around the corners.

Emerging from the back room was Gwen, with her blond hair pulled into a loose braid over her shoulder, eyes dark with makeup and lips red as a candy apple. She smiled, displaying pearly white teeth as her eyes found Bucky’s, and she lengthened her stride to cross the space before embracing him lightly.

“How are you Bucky?” She asked, holding him at an arm’s length, looking him over.

“I’m doing well, thank you for asking. I’m sorry I haven’t come by more often, been kind of busy as of late,” he said sheepishly, smiling faintly. Gwen’s eyes narrowed and she smirked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, Nat’s been keeping me informed on your budding romance with Stevie,” her voice was smooth, and when her eyes traced his face, her smirk widened, “you look good, Bucky.”

“Thank you?” Bucky laughed, and Gwen punched him lightly on the shoulder.

“No, I mean, like, you _look_ happy. And you shaved, too; don’t get me wrong, you’re attractive as fuck with stubble but this clean-cut look, mm,” Gwen said, reaching up to touch Bucky’s jaw. Once upon a time, he might have recoiled, or tightened, or made any other notion of his discomfort. But he was relaxed, and even leaned into Gwen’s touch as she stroked her fingertips along his jaw and down the side of his throat.

“I figured it’d do well to look less like I live on the street. I still need to get my hair cut, though; do you have any suggestions for barbershops around town?”

“Mm, there’s one down on Main’s that’s pretty good. And I know of another across town. I mean, I do my hair on my own—I color and style it myself. But if I need a trim Natasha will usually do it for me.” Bucky rolled his eyes and laughed.

“Is there anything she _can’t_ do?” Gwen grinned leaning against the counter near the register.

“You know, I’m really not sure. She dances—she actually studied dance in college, she works in her own dance studio slash club when she’s not doing porn. She’s super intuitive and observant of everything around her, and she’s real fucking smart, so, yeah. I mean, I’m pretty sure there’s _something_ that she doesn’t do, or at least not well, but you’d have to ask her.” Bucky nodded slowly, smiling softly to himself as he slid his hands into his pockets.

“I’m sure. We haven’t had a real big opportunity to talk as much as Steve and I do, but I look forward to the opportunity when I can. We actually went paintballing the other day, the three of us and my therapist, Sam. We had a really good time.” Gwen smiled, folding her arms over her chest.

“Isn’t there some like code of conduct about doing outside activities with your therapist?” She teased, and Bucky chuckled softly, tilting his head down a little to glance at his feet before meeting her eyes again.

“I’m sure there is, but in my defense it’s not like I’m going after him romantically. More than anything it was a good chance for him to meet the new people who’ve come into my life—plus I think he and Natasha really hit it off. They’re fairly similar in the ways that they conduct themselves and give advice, so there’s that.” Gwen nodded slowly, a small smile on her red lips.

“I think Steve would be awfully jealous if your affections suddenly shifted,” she mentioned, and Bucky smirked.

“I’m sure,” he said, licking his lips, “fortunately for him, there’s no one else who has my attention quite the way that he does.” Gwen’s smile widened, and Bucky’s cheeks warmed.

“Unbelievable,” she murmured, shaking her head slowly. Bucky’s eyebrows knit together as he watched her.

“How so?”

“You and Steve being together. Over a month ago you came into my shop and picked up his DVD by chance, and now you two are a budding item. It’s just so fucking cute, and I feel like I deserve royalties for playing sort-of-matchmaker.” Bucky tossed his head back and laughed, and was delighted to hear Gwen’s rugged laughter following.

“I know,” he began, smiling, “what are the odds, right? But Steve is… He’s good, and I feel like he’s good for me, y’know? We, uh, we actually talked the other night, and he told me about when he served—” Gwen closed her eyes and nodded slowly, her smile small and friendly, “—and that… God, that both broke my heart and shaped it, y’know? Because knowing that he served, that he had to deal with his own horrors is hard enough, but he’s such a bright and beautiful person and he’s so kind. How does someone that kind and generous and _patient_ come from war?”

Gwen watched him slowly, and quirked the corner of her mouth upward, “Same way you did, Bucky. You’ve got your demons but you’re not the same man who first came into my shop. It’s the people you surround yourself with who help pick you up; Steve was lucky when he came home that he had Natasha—they’ve been friends for years, and it, you know, it broke her heart when he said he was going into the service. But she was right there waiting for him when he came home. He has his moments of darkness, but Steve has always been good, and Natasha reminded him of that when he struggled. Just like you are so warm and compassionate, and I’m sure Steve helps bring that out of you.”

The way she explained it twisted Bucky’s heart, and every inch of him felt warm. She had a point, though; prior to his service, Bucky had been all about dancing, surrounding himself with good and wonderful people, enjoying his life and doing all that he could for his family and friends. When he’d gone into the service, he grew hard, cold, calculating, and he came out broken and soulless. But Steve had changed that; in the first film, when Bucky wasn’t even sure of himself or his antics, what he was feeling and what he felt he deserved, something about Steve’s presence and dominance on film ignited something inside of Bucky.

When they’d met, it was like someone had reached in and unhinged the rusted lock and opened Bucky up. Steve had done that; he’d taken Bucky’s hand, guided him in and helped Bucky to find that being open, being honest, wasn’t so bad. Sure, the door still needing some nudging, but Steve wasn’t demanding or pushing, merely waiting for Bucky to find the strength on his own.

“I suppose he does,” Bucky murmured, smiling faintly at Gwen. She wrinkled her nose, watching him slowly before pushing off of the counter.

“Come with me, I want to show you something.” She said, guiding him across the store to the back door where the offices were. Bucky could remember, what was only weeks yet felt like ages ago, following Natasha down this same path to the darkness of the back rooms where he had met Steve for the first time.

But instead of taking him to the room at the end of the hall, Gwen opened the first door on the left, revealing a small office with a desk, some boxes and folders, and what looked like a photo album tucked against the wall. She retrieved it, dusting it off as she flipped through the pages before her fingers slid under the plastic, pulling one free. Frowning softly, Bucky stepped closer to her, looking over her shoulder before she turned, handing him the photo.

It was old, at least ten years or so, but time or style didn’t take away from the distinguishing features of Steve and Natasha’s faces. They looked young, brighter and naïve; Steve’s hair was a softer blond, his eyes bright with freckles dusting across his nose. Beside him, with her head tucked under his chin, was Natasha. Her hair was less fiery red and more of a chocolaty brown, her eyes large and carefree. Though the photo was a close up of their faces, Bucky could see that they were embracing.

He turned the photo over, looking at the soft writing on the back that he knew belonged to Gwen. _May 21 st, 2006_. So, not quite ten years old. _Steve’s goodbye party before going to basic_.

Blinking slowly, Bucky turned the photo back over again, looking at Steve’s face. His cheeks were softer, though admittedly rather shallow, whereas now he was chiseled and strong. His shoulders were broad, but his figure was significantly lankier, and he looked more like a kid fresh out of high school than the large force of sexual power that he was now. In the back of his mind, he could faintly hear Steve’s voice describing a time where he wasn’t big or buff, where he was once sickly and smaller. And even though this Steve in the photograph was but a distant memory to the man Bucky knew now, there was something so soft and endearing about the way Steve looked here.

Smiling some, Bucky looked up at Gwen, “Thank you. But, why did you want to show me this?”   Gwen smiled, glancing down at Bucky’s hand gingerly holding the photo.

“Steve faced his own share of struggles, before service, during, and after. And I can imagine you experienced similarly; war does that to people. It takes you in, chews you up, swallows you and shits you out and expects you to be the same, or better. They don’t tell you that it can hurt, that it can be demoralizing, that it can make you question every shred of faith in humanity or God or whatever you believe in. But the most amazing thing is that Steve came home, and he, with the help of good friends and good heart, grew back into being that smiling, skinny college artist. I think with time, you can be who you once were, too, if not better.”

Bucky stared for a long moment, before looking down at the photo again. Out of the corner of his eye, Gwen’s hand came out, and lightly touched his left shoulder.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the tango that Bucky and Nat perform, this is somewhat how I envision them moving: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TG5F4rt2Ol4

“So what other dance styles do you know?” Steve asked while mopping his face with a towel as Bucky pressed a button on the stereo to pause the music. Sweat clung to his hairline, around the backs of his ears, and behind his neck. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, the tips damp from where they had grazed and stuck to his skin. His long-sleeved shirt was stained in the pits, the front of his collarbone and throat, and down the line of his back, his sweats cut off at the knees.

Bringing the bottle of water from his lips, Bucky swallowed and capped it, before turning to face Steve, “Several ballroom styles; obviously we started with swing; I know waltz, the cha-cha, quick-step, basic steps from a few others. I have to say that Argentine Tango is my favorite.”

Beside him, Steve smiled, draping his towel over his shoulder, “And what makes you say that?”

“It’s just so passionate; being so physically and intimately close to your partner, the way you two move together, the chemistry when you stare into one another’s eyes, it’s just… Fuck, I get so breathless when I have the right partner to dance with, because it’s like looking into his or her soul, and my partner is seeing into me, and it’s just…” Bucky trailed off, biting his lip before exhaling, slumping against the mirror for a moment. The last time he’d danced tango with someone had been in college, and he’d had the pleasure of working with his dance instructor’s assistant—a beautiful Romanian dance major—and she’d aroused Bucky in more ways than just physically.

Taking another drink of his water, Bucky re-capped the bottle before setting it down onto the table next to the stereo. Steve was still sipping lazily from his own, his eyes hazily glued to Bucky’s face. Curling the corner of his mouth, Bucky smoothed back the loose strands of hair from in front of his face. “Something on your mind?”

Steve blinked and smiled, pulling his water bottle away, “Just thinking, I suppose. The way you describe dancing is just amazing. I’d love to learn and dance tango with you, too, someday.”

Bucky laughed quietly. “Well, we could. But it’s a little more complicated, I feel, than swing. It’s not as fast—not typically, anyway—so it has that advantage, but the leg work is intricate and keeping proximity and rhythm… it can be something else. I think, before I were to teach you, I’d like to dance it for myself with someone, to feel it again. Because, to me, dancing is like riding a bike, or picking up an instrument after a time without practice; you remember how it’s done, but it’s feeling it out that makes the most difference.”

Steve nodded slowly, trailing off into thought for a moment before smiling. Whipping out his phone, he tapped at the screen deftly, and Bucky watched closely as he brought the device to his ear, waiting. Raising an eyebrow, Bucky began to open his mouth to ask Steve what he was planning, when the brunette grinned, and spoke, “Nat, hey. Buck and I are at the dance studio near Gwen’s. Do you know how to tango?”

 

* * *

 

An hour later, and awkward shuffling, bumping, and embarrassed laughs later, Bucky stretched out his limbs before coming in step beside Natasha once more. Gwen had mentioned that Natasha had studied and majored in dance, but had failed to mention just how extensive Natasha’s knowledge really stemmed. Bucky had studied and learned dance recreationally, finding pleasure and euphoria in it for personal enlightenment; Natasha had her techniques down to a science, and her form in every motion was perfect. For Natasha, this was her life.

In the short time since her arrival, Natasha had corrected some of Bucky’s awkwardness, her hands firm against his malleable hips and shoulders; she fixed his posture, reminded him to regulate his breathing, and eased his legs out of the strain by encouraging him to use more than just his toes, but the whole ball and heel of his foot when necessary. Bucky might’ve once thought that he was a hard teacher on Steve, but Natasha was merciless behind a cool smile; for that, and every moment after, he was grateful.

Steve, bless him, had kept his laughter at Bucky’s mishaps stifled, and he watched with keen eyes, almost never blinking (that Bucky could see), as Natasha guided Bucky through basic steps to refresh his memory. A few times Bucky might have felt frustrated, and when he furrowed his brow or chewed viciously on his lip, she would bring her hand up to the back of his neck, thumb and index fingers pressing into pressure points, and he would relax.

 _There is literally nothing she can’t do, my God_ , Bucky thought as Natasha forced him to relax once more before going through the steps again. They must have been at this for hours, but when Bucky glanced out of the windows of the studio to continue seeing warm daylight, he knew it hadn’t been. The day was still young, and Steve’s eyes never left Bucky’s form, the way he held onto Natasha, the way they moved together.

Finally, once pulling apart for water—and so Bucky could drag a towel across his face and the back of his neck—Natasha turned and smiled at him, “I think we should incorporate some music, show Steve what we’re really capable of.”

Bucky liked the idea well enough, but after swallowing slowly, he had to speak, “We have no set routine, though. No real idea of what move blends into the next. Wouldn’t it just end up being like a lot of what we’re doing right now?”

Across from him, Natasha smirked, plugging her iPod into the stereo with the use of an auxiliary jack, scrolling through her songs. “Have you never just listened to the music, and let it move you? Have you never been in your room, or some open space, closed your eyes, and let the rhythm be your routine?”

Watching her closely, Natasha raised her eyes to meet him before selecting a song. Bucky blinked slowly, allowing himself a small smile before looking away. He’d allowed music to flow through him and carry him across a floor before, absolutely; but he’d never really done it with most ballroom styles, and _never_ with someone else. Perhaps because he’d never trusted someone else to just trust the music; he never had the partner necessary to find the connection necessary to become _one_ instead of two.

A soft rhythmic guitar began to strum from the stereo, and out of the corner of his eye Bucky could see Steve pulling out is phone and aiming it on them. _Video, Rogers? Really?_ But such musings could not last long, for Natasha began to move, swaying her hips and stepping lightly on her feet. A traditional dance would have called for her to be in heels, but Natasha moved barefoot, raised on the balls of her feet to give her lift where needed. Bucky watched her, admiring as it seemed an invisible wand conducted her movements, and air and water let her flow seamlessly.

 _Let it move you_ , he thought, and Bucky breathed slowly, feeling the rhythm of the guitar steep down into his bones, strumming beneath the surface of his skin, heating his blood as he stepped forward, bringing his hands up to come with Natasha. Chest to chest, he held her tenderly, her hand curled over his, her opposite arm coming around his shoulders.

 _Let the rhythm be your routine_ ; inhaling deeply, Bucky relaxed his shoulders, and Natasha slid closer to him as he moved across the floor, her feet silent as she shadowed him. For every one of his steps, Natasha would do two, kicking her ankles around his, rotating her hips and bending a leg between Bucky’s, or around his thigh. She was light enough, but the way she moved made her a feather, and Bucky was all but the wind guiding her along. When the guitar strummed harder, he spun her, and Natasha kicked her legs up slowly, swinging around with him before stepping lightly to her feet.

He tilted his head back long enough to see her face; as if knowing he was watching, Natasha opened her eyes, gazing up at him as they moved again, nose to nose. He looped his arm down around her waist, his hand flat across her rib and close to her stomach as he turned her. Natasha shifted, sliding her foot across the floor as Bucky leaned her back, before bringing her in again. She twirled, tossing her hip slowly to one side, pressing to Bucky once again.

Bucky breathed, immersed in the guitar’s gentle strumming and the proximity of Natasha’s lips to his. Natasha was a firecracker, and a gentle soul, and an entrancing dancer, and Bucky’s heart raced a little faster as she kicked and spun before sliding herself along his side, brushing her nose against his cheek, their lips but an inch apart. Bucky watched her face, and shivered as she stared deep into him, before they moved again.

It was as if, now, his world was red with the way Natasha’s hair caught fire in the sunlight, and the reflection she cast in the mirrors. As the guitar picked up, their movements blurred faster, and Bucky was both carrying and being carried by Natasha, their hands grasped lightly, her arm tight around his shoulders as they moved across the floor. Bucky’s heart was thumping to the beat, and when Natasha coiled herself around his body, chest to chest, hips to hips, Bucky nearly moaned.

How strange it was to be so aroused in this moment; Bucky had no qualms regarding his sexuality, and had never denied himself, really, an opportunity with any one person based on sex or preferred gender. His heart and his affection belonged to Steve, as did his sexual desire; but in this instance, dancing with Natasha, breathing her in and finding that where she ended he had already begun, he could not deny the warmth of his stomach, the heat of his face, or the hardness she had encouraged from him.

As the strumming slowed, Bucky slid his hand from Natasha’s back up along her side, cupping her cheek in his gloved hand. Forehead to forehead, they came to a stop together, drinking one another in. An ache trembled in the depths of his being, and there was every itching need and want to lean in and kiss her softly. But just as he was about to tilt his head, Natasha shifted, pressing her lips to his cheek, before turning her head away from him.

“Stevie,” her voice was soft, even sweet, but there was a curl like a snake around her words, and Bucky’s skin flushed red, “you might wanna come take care of your boy. He’s rock hard against my thigh.”

There was a soft beeping noise followed by something being practically dropped onto the table before Steve’s footsteps neared. Bucky felt weightless and high, and he barely had time to register Natasha pulling away from him before Steve’s warm, large hand clasped his shoulder, turning him slowly. Hands encompassed Bucky’s face and Steve’s lips were soft and intoxicating as they came to his. And then, only then, did Bucky let loose the desperate moan that had threatened him all that time.


	31. Chapter 31

“Steve,” Bucky moaned deeply, fingers digging harshly into the brunette’s shoulder and neck. It had been a rush, and they fumbled strangely, but at least Bucky and Steve had had the decency (and respect for the studio) to pack up their things and scramble to Bucky’s apartment (it was closer) before desperately clawing at one another. Bucky was still hard, and when Steve had slammed himself into Bucky’s front, pinning the veteran to the wall, Bucky found that Steve was, too.

Panting softly, Bucky tilted his head back as Steve’s lips and teeth peppered his skin. Trembling, his hands slid down past Steve’s hips before looping around, palming his ass through his jeans—good _God_ , how had Bucky gone a day without getting a handful of Steve’s ass?—forcing Steve closer and harder against his groin. Pleasure spiked and spilled down his spine and he moaned again, clenching his jaw as Steve bit into the side of his throat.

Moaning quietly, Steve’s hands slid under Bucky’s shirt, long, warm, smooth fingers slipping through the layer of sweat that still clung, nails scraping over his nipples. Gasping quietly, Bucky arched into Steve’s hold, moaning as he rutted against the porn star. If pleasure could have been explained in a physical sense, it was like thousands of miniature fireworks exploding across his skin and down his spine. Color splashed across the backdrop of black behind his eyelids, and his lips parted, kissed and bitten red.

Sliding his hands out again, Steve took hold of the waistband of Bucky’s cut off sweats, guiding him towards the couch across the room, pushing Bucky down onto it. Flopping against the cushions, Bucky smirked as Steve slid out of his sweat-stained shirt, muscles chiseled and glistening lightly. On film Steve was big and broad and powerful, but in person it was all new and exciting, and Bucky dug shallowly into the depths of his willpower to sit up, slide his right hand across Steve’s stomach before hooking his fingers into Steve’s sweats.

Removing the offending article of clothing was easy enough; coming close and personal with Steve’s erection left Bucky’s mouth salivating as his lungs deflated. Videos and photos could never do justice the glory that was Steve’s cock, and Bucky licked his lips slowly, biting the corner of his mouth.

Above him, Steve’s hands slid into Bucky’s hair, removing the hair-tie. Gently, his fingers cut through the locks, taking a firm hold though not yet pulling. Groaning quietly, Bucky let Steve guide him forward, before pressing his lips to the head of Steve’s cock. It was warm, damp with precum and tasting of salt and Bucky’s stomach gave a hard twist as he looked up at Steve, whose eyes were dark, nearly black from how wide his pupils stretched.

When Steve said, “Get to it, soldier boy,” Bucky nearly came.

Nearly, though. But not actually; he had better restraint than _that_.

Shifting, Bucky swung one leg off of the couch to get a better angle, bringing his right hand up to curl around Steve’s cock, giving him a slow stroke. Steve shivered, keeping his fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair as Bucky slid his hand up once, palm cupping over the head and smearing the glaze of precum down the underside of his shaft before holding the base. Angling Steve’s cock, Bucky grazed his lips against the warmth, moaning deeply as his tongue darted out, swiping across the slit.

Steve hissed, jerking his hips forward just a little, and Bucky smiled, watching Steve’s face as he pressed a kiss to Steve’s cock, before taking the head between his lips. The weight of his cock against his tongue was beyond perfect, but to see the way Steve’s lips parted, how his eyes rolled back and closed, eyelashes kissing the tops of his cheeks as he moaned was more than Bucky could have hoped for.

There had always been a fascination for Bucky to watch Steve’s face when experiencing pleasure; on film the lights were always washing over him, illuminating every line even though makeup and editing covered his freckles— _how could they have done that to him? To remove freckles, blemishes, his scars?_ —it had always been one of Bucky’s favorite things to observe while jacking off to the utter glory that was Steve fucking Rogers. But to see it up close and personal, to know that it was because of his lips, his teeth, his tongue around Steve’s cock that was enticing these little gasps, the way Steve’s lower jaw jutted out as he moaned, the crinkles around at the corners of his eyes as he squeezed his eyes—it was maddeningly wonderful.

Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he sucked a cock, and in this instance of having _the most perfect cock_ on his tongue, Bucky wasn’t sure if he could remember his own birthday without some intense concentration on the matter. Instead, he directed his attention to what he could remember from Steve’s films; covering his teeth as he slid down on Steve’s cock—teeth were only used for the softest of graces—dragging his tongue along the shaft as best he could and under the ridge where the head began, relaxing his throat as he took Steve deeper. All the while keeping his eyes on Steve’s face, because he would be damned if he missed any micro-expression _now_ when it was his mouth pleasuring Steve this way.

Bringing his left hand up to Steve’s hip, he grounded himself, bobbing his head slowly before blinking once as he moaned. Bucky hollowed his cheeks, sucking softly on the head of Steve’s cock. In his hair, Steve’s fingers tightened, and his breathing turned rugged and shallow. The small grunts and sighs that passed between Steve’s teeth sent tremors down Bucky’s spine. For a man who could be so vocal on film, Steve was quiet now, but Bucky didn’t mind; it was like these quite sounds and whimpers were _just_ for him; it was all painfully intimate.

Steve’s fingers tightened in Bucky’s hair, pulling him off of his cock slowly. Whining quietly, Bucky felt a snap of moisture against his lips and looked down to see that a mix of his saliva and Steve’s precum glistened on the cockhead, and some of it was sliding down his chin. Moaning, he licked his lips, looking up at Steve with large eyes, only to have Steve’s massive hands cupping his face.

Steve kissed him hard, and with a passion that made Bucky’s heart twist and his stomach feel light. Pressing close, Steve eased Bucky down again onto his back, his knees straddling Bucky’s thighs. Moaning deeply, Bucky brought his arm around Steve’s shoulders, holding him close as they kissed.

Beneath the surface of his skin, there was an itch, a bubbling and spitting spark that threatened to burst into flame and consume him. It coiled and strangled his insides, left him feeling weight and breathless as Steve’s fingers hooked into his cut offs, pulling them down slowly. Bucky shifted, kissing him deeply as he brought his legs up to kick out of them. Steve’s shoulders shifted under the weight of his arm and Bucky dug his fingers into his skin. When Steve pressed to him, hips to hips, Bucky gasped and cried out quietly.

Steve pulled back, his eyes narrowed and suddenly full of color—concerned. Gritting his teeth, Bucky dragged his hand across Steve’s shoulders, curling it around the back of his neck before kissing him once more. _Don’t you dare stop_ , he wanted to say, but words failed where kissing succeeded, and each new press of Steve’s lips against him took away more and more from the desire to speak.

Shifting his legs, Bucky hooked one around Steve’s thigh, pressing close and rutting slowly, gasping as their cocks brushed, the pressure between their stomachs building and burning. The itch under Bucky’s skin was growing as flecks of light danced at the corners of his eyes, his nails digging hard into the base of Steve’s neck as they moved.

“F-fuck, Bucky,” Steve moaned, kissing his throat, “shit, I was getting ready to suck you but this feels so much better…”

“Do it. Ever since— _ahh_ —watching that first video, I’ve been curious to know how you are sucking cock… I’ll be honest, on film you look like you have a fucking doctorate in oral.” Steve laughed, moaning quietly into Bucky’s throat before shifting again.

“As you wish, soldier boy,” Bucky trembled visibly, sweat causing his shirt and glove to stick to his skin. He had almost a full mind to rip both off.

But watching Steve reposition himself and go down onto his cock was far more worthwhile than exposing himself.

Tracing his fingers along Steve’s hairline, Bucky sank his fingers into the hair at the nape of Steve’s neck, holding on as Steve’s lips traced kisses along his shaft, dragging his teeth along stretches of skin Bucky wasn’t even aware were sensitive, before licking those that made him ache and moan. _Fuck doctorate, this fucker is a_ god _of cock sucking_.

Moaning loudly, Bucky arched his back and bent his knees as Steve’s lips wrapped around the head, the heat and wet of his mouth consuming Bucky’s entirety. Chewing hard on his lip, his back bridged as his left hand dug into the cushions of the couch, clawing into the fabric and stuffing for dear life as Steve managed these tricks of sucking and licking and something in between. Bucky’s toes curled in his socks, his heart ramming against his rib cage as his whole world went black behind his eyelids.

He couldn’t even describe the sensations that were washing through him like a waterfall into a river before. The churning of pleasure, and heat, and wet, and _Oh, my God, yes, yes, Steve—St-Steve, oh, fuck, fuck, FUCK_ was more than Bucky could bear. He felt both hot and chilled to the core, sweating and shivering like a fever was splitting him in half. And all he could think was _If this is how his fucking mouth makes me feel, I can’t even begin to imagine what the rest of him would do to me_.

Panting heavily, tightness began to grip his abdomen, building hotter and heavier for every suck and lick and kiss and graze that Steve made with his mouth. His fingers gripped harder into Steve’s hair, his hips hitching and thrusting a little into Steve’s mouth. And Bucky all but screamed in frustration when Steve pulled away, crawling back up the length of his body. Steve’s lips covered Bucky’s own, his hips resting flat as one his hands came down between their stomachs, curling around _both_ of their— _oh, oh God, oh God, oh God—fuck, fuck, fuck!_

“Steve,” Bucky gasped against the brunette’s lips, thrusting into his hold and against his hips. Steve groaned and reciprocated the action, pumping hard. “Steve, I’m—oh, _shit_ , I’m gonna… I’m…”

“C’mon, Bucky, go ahead… I’m right here with ya.” Steve moaned, pressing their foreheads together. As swift as a crash of waves, and just as powerful, Bucky arched and jerked against Steve’s body, crying out as his fingernails dug welts into Steve’s neck, and he came hard across their stomachs.

It wasn’t long after, and under the weight of Steve’s gaze on his face, that Bucky felt Steve coming as well.

Steve slumped against Bucky, smearing their mess across their skin and into Bucky’s shirt—which had inched its way up past his waist during his thrashing. Panting heavily, Bucky blinked away the stars that had clouded his vision, his throat drier than a desert, fingers and toes prickling with numbness. Above him, Steve’s breath kissed his throat, and he could feel two different heartbeats, both erratic to begin with, leveling out until they became one steady rhythm.

As Steve caught his breath, Bucky looked down the lengths of their bodies, seeing the long lines of Steve’s legs, before catching sight of his own—the left one; mottled with scars and patches of lightened skin from burns, Bucky felt his core clenching, his first instinct to recoil and dress. Sure, his cut offs exposed the cacophony of scars on his calf, but they were lighter than the ones that traced and webbed up his thigh, across his ribs and chest to his shoulder.

Swallowing slowly, he blinked, turning his head to kiss Steve’s hair. It wasn’t fair to himself to Steve to hide it anymore. Even in the midst of their pleasure and their need, Steve would have seen—plain as fucking day—the mess of Bucky’s left side. There was no point to pretend that he couldn’t risk overwhelming Steve. The man had seen war, and had understood the prices that were paid, willingly or not.

“Y’know,” Steve said, cutting through Bucky’s thoughts, “if this had been for a film, my director would be thoroughly disappointed with me and how quickly I came.”

Snickering quietly, Bucky planted another kiss, this time to the shell of Steve’s ear.

“Good thing this wasn’t then. But you can take comfort in this,” Bucky murmured, nosing his cheek to sneak in a small kiss, “I was not, in the slightest bit, disappointed in you.”

Steve’s face flushed red and Bucky smirked. “Well, that’s good. I would have been very upset with myself if I’d failed in making you feel good.” Steve’s eyes wandered his face, before reaching his lips once more. Bucky leaned up slowly, kissing him a third time.

“Consider it mission accomplished, Captain,” he mumbled, and Steve grinned against his lips.

“Thank God.” He said, leaning in to be close and kiss Bucky again. But Bucky shifted, pressing his hand to Steve’s chest.

“Wait,” he said, his heart pounding heavily. Steve frowned softly. “I need to show you.”

“Show me what?” Steve mused, and Bucky reached across himself, touching his left arm with his right hand. Steve’s eyes softened, and he cupped Bucky’s face. “You don’t have to. Not until you’re ready, Bucky.”

“Look at me, Steve; look at all of me. And tell me whether or not you think I’m ready.” Frowning, Steve leaned back a little, his eyes catching the webs of metal and burn scars that spanned from under Bucky’s shirt, down his left side and along the length of his leg before softening out to the regular, unmarred flesh of his ankle and foot. Bucky watched the bob of Steve’s throat as he swallowed, and he nodded slowly.

Slowly, Bucky brought his gloved hand to his lips, taking the tip of the middle finger between his teeth. He inhaled deeply, stamping down the cold waters of shame, fear, and panic, swallowing the knot in his throat, calming the rhythm of his heart, before pulling slowly on the glove. In a swift motion, it came free, and he saw the reflection of silver in Steve’s eyes. But only that much, before Bucky let rest the metal hand against his chest, his eyes closed.

For his entire prowess, and all of his work in bettering his self-talk and anxiety, he couldn’t bring himself to look at Steve, to no doubt see the horror that would be there in blue irises. Instead, he choked back everything that was screaming at him to stop, to hide, to push Steve away, and he slipped out of the right sleeve of his shirt first, pulling it over his head, before sliding the fabric down his left arm. He let the shirt fall from his fingers, knowing full well how the scars spanned across his collarbones and up the side and back of his neck.

There was silence for a long while, even as Steve’s body remained close to Bucky’s. But his heart would not stop its chatter, and his mind would not silence; _Why doesn’t he pull away, why doesn’t he make a sound, why doesn’t he betray what I know he must be thinking. This is beyond any horror, beyond anything… imaginable. This is fucked up and it’s horrible and after this he won’t think I’m—_

_He won’t… He…?_

Tears were rolling down the sides of Bucky’s head, pooling into the ridges of his ears and hairline as he felt Steve’s hands lifting his left one; he couldn’t feel specifics, but he could feel pressure and warmth, and he could distinguish Steve’s fingers tracing the plates and ridges of his own fingers, pressing into the synthetic material of his palm, holding him close and steady. Chewing his lip, Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat, struggling to breathe as Steve lifted his hand. He felt it being pressed to something, and when he found the courage to open his eyes, his heart nearly stopped.

Steve was cradling his hand in his own, pressing Bucky’s palm to his cheek. His eyes, so soft and so bright in their shade of blue, were lined with tears, but he was smiling so brightly. Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed together, and he opened his mouth to speak when Steve turned his head slowly, kissing the palm and fingers of Bucky’s prosthetic hand. His heart ached, kick-starting itself painfully after a long moment of nothing.

Steve turned Bucky’s hand, pressing the flat of it to his unmarred chest, over his heart, before leaning down to kiss Bucky again, harder and… filled with more than anything Bucky could have hoped for.


	32. Chapter 32

For the longest while, Steve said nothing, and neither did Bucky. Words were not a necessity when laying naked on a couch not meant for two ex-military veterans, one turned porn star. It was a wonder Bucky’s couch, old and decrepit as it was, hadn’t groaned and collapsed under their combined girth, but he had to hand it to the battered and old piece of furniture; it was stubborn and definitely proved to be tougher than it looked.

Steve’s head rested against Bucky’s right shoulder, his fingers tracing over the lines and flattened plates of Bucky’s fingers and the back of his left hand, following the patterns as best he could. Bucky, in a hazy state of relaxation, combed his fingers through Steve’s hair at the back of his head, watching nimble fingers glide back and forth across the metallic surface. It was almost hypnotic watching Steve’s pale fingers caress the metal, and the longer he did it, the more Bucky’s tension eased.

He had half expected himself to have an episode, really; he’d never shown the full extent of his arm to anyone, not even Sam, who’d at least seen his hand. Since coming home, only government officials had seen what had become of him during his time in captivity in Russia; not even his mother knew about the prosthetic (and how long had it been since he last spoke to her, let alone saw her). So he’d prepared himself, measured his breathing and did everything he could not to black out or shut Steve out.

But seeing Steve’s face, the way he cupped Bucky’s hand against his skin as if he was the most harmless and gentle person in existence had put a surefire end to coiling grief that threatened to surface. Bucky had not been lying when he once told Natasha that Steve looked at him like a man, and not a broken toy; Steve’s eyes betrayed every honest thought, and he could not have made plainer how much he adored Bucky, arm and all.

“Can you shower with it? Or do you have to, like, wrap it in plastic wrap or something?” Steve asked after a moment, and Bucky chuckled quietly, kissing Steve’s forehead gently.

“Nah, I can shower with it. The, uh, the plates and everything have these different levels in them that reroute the water so it doesn’t get inside. I do have to be careful though, because I’m not sure how it’ll hold up against things like rust and whatnot. So far it’s been okay. I, uh,” Bucky laughed quietly, looking over at his arm; “I actually cleaned it and greased it the other day. The shoulder area was squeaking a little.”

“So you have to care for it like a car, basically?” Steve mused, tilting his head up to look at Bucky.

“I do, in a sense. I know there’s more to it than that. There are more technical things that need to happen to care for it properly, make sure it functions the way it’s meant to. Honestly, I really don’t even know… I—I spent so long hating it that I didn’t bother to really look at it from a mechanical perspective. It’s like nothing I, or anyone, has ever really seen or considered from a design or functional standpoint, so it’s hard to say.” Steve nodded once, lowering his gaze back to Bucky’s arm, his hand resting over the curve of his forearm.

“So what does it feel like?”

“Pressure. Heat. I can’t, like, feel your hand specifically, but I can _feel_ pressure and weight. And I know you’re warm. But, like, if you were to scrape your nails against it lightly, and I wasn’t looking? I probably wouldn’t notice.”

“Interesting,” Steve mused, sliding his hand down Bucky’s arm to take his hand, lacing their fingers. Bucky smiled softly, stroking his thumb along Steve’s finger. “I imagine it’s heavy? It’s metal, after all.”

Swallowing slowly, Bucky nodded once. “Yeah, it is. It’s… it definitely took some getting used to when I—when…”

Shifting, Steve lifted himself up slowly, looking down at Bucky. “It’s alright. You don’t have to if you’re not ready. Or, or you can tell me what is easiest to say.”

“I know, I just—I haven’t shared any of this with anyone other than Sam. And even Sam doesn’t know all of the details. So it’s difficult working past some of the details, but I’m okay. Um, but, yeah. This arm wasn’t the first one; this was actually like… the third or fourth prosthetic that was put on me. The others were failures in both design and function. But yeah, it’s heavy. Here, try lifting it off of my stomach.”

Steve shifted, curling his hand around the back of Bucky’s wrist. Bucky relaxed, letting his arm serve as dead-weight, and when Steve tried to move it, he strained. Groaning quietly, Steve was able to curl his hand under Bucky’s arm, lifting it slowly. Bucky watched, amused, as Steve’s muscles bulged, a vein rising to the surface of his throat before he sighed, letting Bucky’s arm rest back onto his stomach again.

“No wonder you lead when we dance; I probably wouldn’t be able to carry you even if I tried,” Steve groaned, and Bucky laughed, smoothing his hair back.

“Bet you I could kick your ass at arm-wrestling,” Bucky snickered, and Steve took a swift swat at his chest.

“Fuck you, soldier boy,” Steve said with a laugh, sitting up slowly. Bucky tightened himself, sitting up and repositioning himself on the couch so he and Steve could more comfortably share it.

“Maybe later,” Bucky said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. Steve’s mouth curled upward but his head tilted down, and a small blush scattered across his freckles. It was cute to see Steve this way, so humble and bashful, and Bucky felt his heart squeeze a little.

“Tell you what,” Bucky said, grabbing the blanket that was draped over the back of the couch in order to spread it over their laps and legs. There was no shame in being naked, but his apartment wasn’t super warm without the heat being on; with autumn rolling through it was getting even worse. “Why don’t we do some fucking twenty questions, like that day in the café? If we need to pass, we can.”

Steve’s laughter was soft, and it resonated against Bucky’s skin like the vibrations of a drum head after being struck. “Sounds good to me. Why don’t you start?”

Bucky eyed Steve for a moment, smoothing his hair back before breathing slowly. “Alright. Um. Where would I even start?” Steve smiled, but remained silent. “I suppose… why did you want to join the army in the first place if you ended up hating it anyway?”

Steve’s eyes darkened for a moment, and there was a slight clench of his jaw. Bucky stilled, watching the bob of Steve’s throat as he swallowed, his eyes haunted for the briefest of moments before he smiled, unwavering in his brightness. “I, uh, I ran into a bit of financial trouble, if you remember. Art school isn’t cheap, and finding a job to pay off said debts is harder than you’d think. Before that, y’know, I was smaller, I was weaker, I still didn’t like bullies, and I got into fights pretty regularly. I went in wanting to be better, stronger; I wanted to be able to protect people.”

“Look at you,” Bucky said, leaning his head into his hand, smiling softly, “Itty bitty Steve Rogers throwing punches. How did that work out for you?”

Steve crinkled his nose, blinking slowly, “Not great. I often showed up to class bruised; I actually was instructed to visit a counselor to make sure I wasn’t being beaten at home or in an abusive relationship. Since most of my fights happened off campus, security really couldn’t do anything about it.”

“Your turn.” Bucky said, and Steve grinned.

“Have you thought about getting tattoos?”

Bucky blinked, tilting his head a little.

“Pardon?” Steve smiled, laughing quietly.

“Well, you know how sometimes people get tattoos to cover scars, or like women will get them to cover up mastectomies? Have you considered that for yourself? I… I know it can’t be easy; I mean, shit, I got out lucky with just a few little ones here and there, but I know they can weigh on you at first. But, could you imagine turning that reminder into a work of art?”

Bucky hadn’t thought about it, truthfully; since coming home and getting away from fire and needles and bone saws, the last thing he could’ve considered was allowing someone to take a needle and stab his skin five thousand times with color. But Steve proposed an interesting idea; to have his scars, his horrors and nightmares, colored over in something beautiful? It was… something.

“I hadn’t before, no, but… I’ll keep it in mind. Maybe get some giant fucking dragon coiling down my left side or something, y’know?” Steve laughed, tossing his head back a little.

“You could, yeah. Hell, you’ve been so good teaching me to dance. Tell you what; I’ll draw you up some ideas if you want to give me something to work with? Maybe we can start small, like an experimental piece. I’ll even draw it on you first to see if you like it.”

Something about that, about having Steve’s art on his skin, forever, made Bucky’s skin tingle with warmth.

“I would, yeah, thank you, Steve.” Bucky said, sliding his hand across their legs to grasp Steve’s, lacing their fingers.

“You’re welcome. Alright, your turn, again.”

Bucky thought for a moment, tossing back and forth whether he wanted to ask questions about Steve’s time as a soldier, or learn more about the man in front of him; the man who was a porn star, an artist, a novice dancer, a kindred soul. There was an innate curiosity seeded within Bucky to know and learn all he could, to relate more intimately on the horrors and ghosts of Steve’s past. But all the same, Steve was not the man he had been in service, just as Bucky was no longer quite the husk he’d been left after coming home. It was unfair to weigh all of his questions on jaw clenching memories when instead he could learn about what made Steve laugh, what made him cry, and what completely and undeniably changed his life for the better.

Chewing his lip, he looked up at Steve. “How did you and Natasha meet?”

Steve smiled, pushing a few wisps of hair out of his face. “We met in high school, actually. Eleventh grade; she was an exchange student from Europe who was going to do a term as a sort of study-abroad. But she ended up staying, deciding that she liked America. We continued on in college after growing close, and we’ve been that way ever since. She was really interested in language as well, but if you ever get on her bad side, or she starts speaking really passionately, you can hear her accent.”

“Where was she from originally?”

“Russia.”

Bucky didn’t notice at first, but his left hand curled and clenched into a fist, though he kept his face calm. “Oh. I suppose that makes sense, her last name being Romanoff and all. I imagine in Russia it was closer to Romanov?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, sweeping a glance down before lifting it to Bucky’s face again. “She started her dance studies and training there, in ballet no less, before getting into some of the grittier dances here. She likes a lot of hip-hop and exotic dance styles, but of course she’s a natural in ballroom as well, as you noticed today.”

“She’s a beautiful dancer,” Steve’s eyes glittered as the corner of his mouth curled.

“I know. Your body kind of betrayed you.”

“What can I say; Natasha is a gorgeous woman.” Bucky said with a laugh.

“She is. I really don’t know where I would be without her. My, uh, my mom passed away when I was starting in college, so she didn’t get a chance to see me develop my art. But, amazingly, Natasha was there for me. She stepped into that big-sister sort of role and looked out for me even when all I would do was push her away. I get I was angry and grieving my mom, but Natasha put up with so much of my shit during that period.”

“Sounds like you made quite an impression on her.” Steve smiled, nodding slowly.

“I suppose I did. She, heh, she was not happy, needless to say, when I revealed I was going into the service. I thought she was going to kill me right then and there, she was so angry. She was scared, though, you know? Her adoptive father was a parliament sort of guy, y’know, European government. She was afraid.”

Imagining Natasha as anything but terrifyingly confident and sexy as hell was hard, but Bucky could relate. It was how his mother had felt when he told her what his plans were as far as military service. Ultimately she was proud, but there had been a period of time where she was scared and upset, as well.

“Enough about Nat, though,” Steve said, waving his free hand, “her life really isn’t mine to share.”

“She’s said the same about you, y’know,” Bucky admitted, and Steve chuckled.

“That really doesn’t surprise me. For a woman so open and honest with most everything about herself, she will not betray your secrets. If you share something, she’ll often keep it to herself unless she has permission to share it. But I know there’ve been instances she said things to you that I’ve indulged with her. I promise it’s not her trying to scare you or anything; she just looks out for me. She always has.”

“I trust you, and her,” Bucky said, licking the sore patch on his lip slowly, uncurling his fingers slowly.

“I’m glad.” Steve said, giving Bucky’s fingers a squeeze with his own.


	33. Chapter 33

“How long has it been, man?” Bucky had been caught up staring intently at his fingers, remembering the way Steve had cradled his hand, peppered kisses against the palm, and held him so close and tight that the metal grew warm that Bucky hadn’t even heard Sam speak at first. And it wasn’t until the man, dressed to the nines in a suit with a gold watch on his wrist, waved his hand in Bucky’s peripheral that the veteran looked up.

“I’m sorry, what?” Bucky asked, chuckling quietly as his cheeks warmed slowly. Sam smiled, pearly white and gentle as he leaned back into his chair a little, crossing one leg over the other, bouncing his foot.

“It’s alright, Bucky. I asked you how long it’s been—since you’ve contacted your family?”

The question goes through Bucky like a warm knife through butter, a bitter taste of guilt and shame coating the back of his throat as he looks away. In truth, he hasn’t spoken to his mother, father, or sister in… well, since his last letters and Skype calls before he had been taken captive. He knew that they had been notified when he was brought home alive, but he’d never taken the opportunity to reach out to them since; they didn’t know where he lived, or what he had been up to.

A part of Bucky had to assume that they were worried—they were his family, and if anyone was a worry-wart, it was surely his mother. His father could be a little tougher, a little more stoic behind hard eyes and greying hair— _God, how have the years changed them? Would I even recognize them? Would they recognize me?_ —and Rebecca… well, Rebecca could be a little shit for sure; no doubt if he saw her she’d punch him repeatedly in the arm, calling him all manners of names and insults for his silence and lacking presence.

But, all the same, the Barnes family had never really been one to want to overwhelm others with their concerns. Bucky’s father had been a hard man growing up and living his adult life during the Vietnam War; he’d always wanted best for his children but had taken no shortage in teaching both Bucky and Rebecca how to handle themselves verbally and physically. If Bucky could credit anyone for his wit and criticism on life (prior to his service, anyway) it was his father and sister respectively.

His mother, however, had always been gentle and kind; where Bucky’s father might’ve been the one to teach him the proper way to throw a good punch, Bucky’s mother would wipe his tears and dress his bruises and cuts, and tell him it was okay to cry, and that no matter what he was still her brave little man for standing up for himself and others. Bucky could remember her hands and eyes being soft, warm, and ever so loving.

Crinkling his nose and pursing his lips, Bucky refused to look at Sam for a long moment, before mumbling quietly under his breath, “I… I haven’t talked to them since before Russia. When I was brought home, they told me that my family had been contacted, informed that I was alive and back on U.S. soil. But I haven’t seen or spoken to them.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky could see Sam’s jaw clench, nostrils flaring as he folded his hands in his lap. Bucky cringed, and looked down at his hands again, tracing the lines of the plates along his wrist and arm. “Bucky,” Sam said softly, “why haven’t you talked to them? You can imagine they must be worried? Or worse?”

“I know,” Bucky said, curt and short, “I just… I was away so long and I… I couldn’t even face myself like this, how could I have asked it of them? I mean, I’m still—still grasping this, y’know? I’m still trying to find out how to dress and look at myself and let others look at me and not feel like my lungs are filling with acid. I can’t… ask them to understand or accept me with open and loving arms. They’re my family, sure, but they’re not obligated to welcome who, or even what, I am now.”

Sam shifted, uncrossing his legs before leaning forward, staring hard at Bucky—who still refused to look up more than half an inch, “James Buchanan Barnes, I am very disappointed in you. You have made leaps and bounds of progress, not just with yourself but with other people. You’ve opened up to me; I know you’ve opened up to Steve and Natasha to some degree. But this is your _family_. I can’t normally dictate what you should or should not do, but this probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard from you.”

Clenching his jaw, Bucky breathed slowly through his nose, picking at one of the plates along his thumb. “Isn’t there some law that you can’t be, like, fucking degrading to your clients?” Bucky quipped, only lifting his gaze enough to see Sam’s exasperated expression.

“Bucky,” Sam sighed, tilting his head to the side some while lowering his tone, “come on, man, listen to yourself. You’re choosing to ignore your family because you’re afraid they won’t welcome you, or that you’re afraid they’ll force themselves to accept you but not really love who you are? They have to be good people to have someone like you for a son; Bucky; your experiences and horrors only change you if you let them. Deep down, you’re still _their_ son, their family.”

“I _know_ they’re my family,” Bucky hissed, scratching at the plate, picking at it until his finger and thumbnails chipped, “I know that, but this is… I don’t know. I left and went to war and there was with unspoken promise I’d come back some fucking hero, and I didn’t. I came back empty and deformed. How could I have gone to them after that? My ma had enough on her plate watching me go in the first place, knowing that I’d come back more like my dad than ever before.”

“Were you afraid to be like your dad?”

“No,” Bucky moaned, combing his fingers through his hair when he chipped too deep into his thumbnail. “It’s just that my dad has always been kind of cold—he means well and he loved us growing up but ‘Nam kind of fucked with him, and my ma always went on about how much _passion_ I put into shit and… fuck, I don’t know. I don’t fucking know, okay? I wasn’t in a good place to contact them before, God for-fucking-bid I wanted some time to myself to get my head at least somewhat fucking straight before I went off to them again.”

Sam watched him closely, large brown eyes turning soft and, almost, sad, before he looked away. Beneath his jacket, Bucky’s heart was racing and his blood felt cold. He knew it wasn’t fair or right to leave his family in the dark, to let them think that he was just some ghost story, or that the government might have lied to them. It wasn’t fair to leave them with nothing but the word of the people who carted him off in the first place.

But Sam of all people had to understand that; the only reason Bucky spent his time coming to Sam in the first place was because it was a court order on behalf of a commanding officer, and because Bucky, with time, legitimately enjoyed talking to Sam. Sam was his diary, his quiet and private place where all things dark and cold and bloody could come out and no one would stare at him funny. This office, these walls and windows and Sam’s impeccable sense of calm and quiet were what Bucky needed—not traumatizing his family.

Palming his face in his hands, Bucky breathed slowly, trembles dancing their way across his shoulders and down his spine. There were times where he honestly felt like he might be going somewhere, like improvements were being made and he’d be okay again. But then there’d be times, like today, or when he happened to look at the one and only photograph he had out in his house of him and Becca when he was in college, and he just felt like a sack of shit and broken things all over again.

Smoothing his hair back, Bucky rested his elbows on his knees, staring hard at the floor. It was easier to count the threads in the carpet than it was to look Sam in the eye. It wasn’t so exhausting, anyway.

“Listen, Bucky,” Sam breathed after the pounding in Bucky’s ears had subsided somewhat, “I’m sorry. I came off too strong on your and that’s not fair; you’re not wrong for wanting time to collect yourself, but I do believe that your family deserves an explanation, as well as a share of your time as well. They’re good people, from the sounds of it, and I hope they will support and care for you the way Steve has, and the way I try to. But you have to give them that chance to do so.”

Swallowing heavily, Bucky blinked back a bit of wetness, but not before watching a drop fall and hit the floor.

“Try to go home and get some rest, and think about this, alright? Maybe, if you’re up for it, give them a call. If you’re not ready to see them, or have them see you, that’s up to you. But I think they deserve to hear from _you_ , to know you’re alive and doing better than before.”

Bucky said nothing. He nodded a few times while wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, stood from the couch and left.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING** This chapter is a continuation of 19, and thus exhibits graphic and disturbing material.  
> Themes featured in the most recent episode of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. are also present; such themes are copyrighted to Marvel, and are not my own invention.

They pumped him full of liquid nutrients and vitamins, fed him high protein and carb meals to replenish lost muscle mass. Once they realized that the arm was a success, that the bone grafts and wiring were, in fact, permanent, they began with a new phase of rebuilding Bucky from ground zero; that phase began with nutritional health.

They let him sleep, undisturbed, for the first time in months. But even though he had darkness and quiet, and even a fresh pillow, Bucky could not sleep. The weight of the metal wired and welded into his shoulder was exhausting and painful; the bone grafts ached between his real bones, and he felt both weightless and too heavy. Fresh scars and burned cracked and split whenever he moved too much.

Bucky spent most of his nights propped against the wall, staring blankly ahead at the far wall where the door was. Whatever he didn’t eat was left to grow cold and stiff in the corner; so long to go without consistent or filling meals to suddenly being pumped with them was overwhelming. Most nights Bucky couldn’t eat more than a third of what they shoved through the slot in the door.

Most mornings after, they forced the rest down his throat, regardless of how cold or gritty it had become.

 

* * *

 

“Sergeant Barnes,” Zola’s voice was cold, his smile almost sinister as Bucky was pressed down into a chair, leather straps folded and tightened over his arms and ankles, holding him down. “How wonderful to see that your body is maintaining the prosthetic.”

Bucky said nothing, glaring ahead.

Zola turned away, the light glinting off of his large round glasses as he directed his focus to the other white-coated men in surgical masks. “We will begin today monitoring brain and nerve function while testing the stability of the prosthetic. Do not waste time or resources on anesthesia. The subject has proven to be of formidable strength.”

Swallowing thickly, Bucky looked down and away from the men surrounding him, willing the erratic beating of his heart to calm.

 

* * *

 

They trained him, built upon what he’d learned in the army; they strengthened his hand to hand combat skills once the mobility and function of the arm had been improved. It was still a weight that left Bucky imbalanced and exhausted more often than not, but with each grueling day he grew better, stronger; the fire in his gut, however, never once subsided.

But there was a kind of solace in training; getting back into the rhythm of wielding firearms and blades was one Bucky never before considered comforting, yet in present company it was the only familiarity that he had. He found that, with time and practice and sure willpower, he favored the metal hand wielding the blades, even when his skills proved ambidextrous; the weight of the metal gave additional speed and power, the plates and pistons buried deep within false bone and flesh whirring quietly. Bucky could move faster and harder.

The fire moved to his stomach while his chest turned cold.

Having always been an excellent marksman, the steadiness of the metal only made him that much better. It was ironic, in a way; to have something so hate and painfully forced upon him making him better. Making him stronger. It was bittersweet, and left a poor taste in the back of his throat.

He thought of curling metal fingers around throats.

 

* * *

 

His dreams were filled of fire and blood, and now metal.

More often than he would have liked or wanted, Bucky woke screaming, sweating, tears clinging to his eyes with the memory of pain in his arm, shoulder, and ribs. There was one night, when the scorching and bubbling and smell of burning skin proved too much, and when Bucky punched the floor of his cell with the metal arm, the concrete cracked and split, and cratered beneath his fist.

 

* * *

 

They ran him through courses, testing his endurance once he’d regained strength, pitting him against obstacles that required the use of the metal arm—breaking down doors or thin walls, fending off foes with hands or small weapons. On both temples were these adhesive chips that tracked brain activity, one against pulse points to monitor blood pressure and heart rate, and ones dotting down his spine and left ribs for bone and muscles connected to the metal arm.

Dressed only in his uniform pants, Bucky had run the course, panting lightly and dripping with sweat, his muscles straining and bones weary; for every trial he completed, they had him start over with new foes and new obstacles, new paths to the mazes. Sometimes the walls were ice cold and slimy, other times they were warm and had a texture of brick. Each time, it took Bucky less than ten minutes to get from the start to the finish, no matter how they’d changed or warped the path.

Half shuffling through the final door, Bucky doubled over, panting heavily as sweat rolled and slid off of his nose, dropping to the floor beneath his bare feet. A voice crackled over an old, broken intercom system—magnificent levels of science, and things that almost felt beyond human, yet they had a shitty PA system.

“Again, Soldier.”

Gritting his teeth, Bucky heard the walls and floors cracking and changing, and he turned around to go back once more through the door.

 

* * *

 

He dreamt of fire. He dreamt of Zola’s face as more of his limbs were torn off and replaced with metal prosthetics. He dreamt of Zola’s glasses reflecting his agonized face as surgeons replaced his tendons with wires, his bones with steel, his skin with metal and aluminum. He dreamt of becoming everything that was cold and artificial.

 

* * *

 

_Henceforth,_ Zola’s voice cut through his drugged consciousness, _you are the Winter Soldier, model zero-zero-one._

* * *

 

Bucky ate the food they gave him, and he slept at least six hours a night.

When he was awake, he plotted. He took solace in the image of crushing Zola’s windpipe beneath the metal of the left hand.

 

* * *

 

They told him to take a rifle and kill a man—a soldier—nearly three hundred meters away. To test his capabilities.

No matter how cold they’d turned his insides, or how desolate he’d become himself, Bucky couldn’t bring himself to kill the man who reminded him so much of himself: Defeated, broken, and exhausted.

They beat him when he intentionally missed every round.

 

* * *

 

“I am disappointed in you, Soldier,” Zola’s voice hissed. Bucky glared head, his overgrown hair brushing his shoulders, the scruff of a beard glistening with sweat and grime.   “You have such promise, and potential, yet still you refuse our gifts. We are trying to make you better, stronger. The new world will not be one of peace, not immediately. We need obedient soldiers to lead it. You will be obedient. You will comply.”

Bucky raised his eyes to meet Zola’s, allowing the burst of pride to warm his stomach when Zola’s eyes narrowed, and he moved away.

 

* * *

 

They filled his head with sounds, forcing his eyes open to watch swirls of color and imagery of horror and war; images of what the world would be if they didn’t eradicate it and make it better. A secret branch of government and they wanted to tear the world apart.

Bucky had long since lost himself in his own revenge. Any efforts they had to make him complacent and willing to obey were lost on him.

 

* * *

 

Bucky took his opportunity when Zola neglected to strap down the metal arm before he turned away. He reached over, clawing the leather straps away from his right arm before launching forward. Zola whipped around, eyes wide behind his glasses, in time to see the metal hand clawing out at him, wrapping thickly around his pudgy small throat. Bucky snarled, shoving Zola across the clustered space of the room, breaking past tables and equipment before slamming him against the wall.

He heard Zola’s head crack against the surface, and the scientist gasped and sputtered, eyes twitching as his tiny hands swiped at the arm. Growling, Bucky tightened the metal, listening with delight as the motors whirred and the plates shifted, and Zola’s face reddened and twisted, until Bucky heard a satisfying crunch.

Zola collapsed, eyes dark.

Men swarmed the room, ready to apprehend and eliminate Bucky; their bones were paper beneath Bucky’s wrath.

 

* * *

 

Left only in his uniform pants and the tattered remains of his jacket, Bucky shuffled out of the facility as it burned, filled with the blood of those who’d held him captive behind him, into the snow. The wind, sharp and cold with ice, cut through him, but it was relief and joy compared to the dark, damp, bowels of his cell, or the stark white of the room they’d deformed him in. The sun was hidden behind smoke and clouds, and Bucky blinked, tears rolling down his face as he walked.

He lost feeling in his bare feet within five minutes of walking, the fingers of his right hand turning blue within ten. His teeth chattered in his skull, but all he could think or care for was _I’m free, I’m free, I’m free, I’m free, I’m free…_

* * *

 

He’d fallen into the snow, hoping for death to come for him, when a shadow crossed over his face. Second nature and an innate desire to fight and live overwhelmed him, and Bucky lashed out, howling like a dying and desperate animal. A quiet voice soothed him, and warms hands touched his shoulders.

 

* * *

 

When consciousness came back for him, Bucky was lying on a small bed beneath warm blankets, the walls lit with orange light. He blinked slowly, looking around himself as an older man walked into the room, wearing a coat with the mark of the United Nations on his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. The only survivor from the wreckage of your convoy in two-thousand-eight. You were missing, and you were taken for dead.” The man had told him after a hot meal, a shower, and clean clothes. Bucky said nothing, and stared ahead. “Son… Do you have any idea where you are, or what year it is?”

Bucky remained silent.

“Sergeant Barnes?” The man asked, tilting his head to try and catch Bucky’s gaze. Bucky didn’t move. The man sighed. “You’re in a veteran hospital outside of London. It’s two-thousand-eleven.”

 

* * *

 

When his health had returned, and the doctors had determined that he hadn’t suffered brain damage from the cold or his time in captivity, they put him on a private plane home.

 

* * *

 

Bucky had been greeted by armed personnel, escorted through a military bunker to a truck where he would be taken to another facility to be thoroughly examined and assessed. All the while, he remained silent, keeping his head low, his hands folded in front of him. He wanted to cower, to hide, to curl in on himself and hide the scars, the metal, the pain, and every dirty rotten thing that Zola had done to him in Russia.

But after the time he spent in London, the brief examinations they’d done to him, the poking and prodding and _Can you display the function of the metal arm one more time, Sergeant Barnes_? He knew that this would not be an opportunity to coil away and hide inside of his shell; there would be more tests, more poking, more prodding, more questions. There would be more of everything that he didn’t want to deal with.

He was given the entirety of the back seat of the trunk to himself, upon which Bucky laid and curled up, tucking his head onto his right arm, facing the seat, with the metal arm lining straight down along his side. The men who accompanied him in the front seats said nothing, and the truck handled smoothly as they drove.

He hadn’t intended to sleep, but he did; he dreamed of fire. And if he trembled, whimpered, or screamed, the men said nothing to him when he woke.

 

* * *

 

“Sergeant Barnes, describe to us what happened the moment your convoy was attacked.”

There was a camera fixed on his face across a table. Bucky stared through it, wishing so bad his glare was fire so that he might destroy the infernal thing.

“It was cold, nighttime. Middle of October, or something. Completely quiet. Vehicles in front and behind mine were turned over by explosives. Mine was hit next. The force and heat blew open the side of the door, and I was thrown from the vehicle into the snow. I… don’t remember much, other than being in pain, and cold. There was gunfire, and screaming. I tried pushing myself up and realized I couldn’t.”

“Why couldn’t you, sergeant?”

Bucky blinked, breathing hard, swallowing slowly.

“My arm was missing, from the middle of my bicep down. Just a… bloody, broken stump. Fire filled the sky. Someone… came over me, took me away. I blacked out after that.”

“When you woke, where were you? What did you see?”

He hated this. He hated every moment of it. Fire curled in his stomach like a dragon’s tail wrapping around his internals.

“I was in a concrete cell. It was cold, damp. Smelled of mold. I don’t know where it was. Somewhere else in Russia, probably.” His voice was flat, and he looked away from the camera, pursing his lips and clenching his jaw, before licking his lower lip quickly.

“What did you experience in this cell?”

“What anyone else experiences in solitary confinement? Desolation. Fear. Isolation. Anxiety. I was locked up like an animal, and treated worse.” Hellfire warmed his tongue, and Bucky raised his gaze from the camera to the men standing behind it.

“Worse, how?”

“Are you fucking serious,” Bucky all but whispered, straightening his shoulders slowly. “You have the _gall_ to ask me how it was worse? I rarely ate, I rarely slept—if I did, it was disturbed or filled with nightmares. They tore me apart trying to fit fucking nightmares of prosthetics to my arm, and where the _fuck_ were you?! Where the fuck were you while I was locked up beneath the snow and ice and dirt of Russia for _three fucking years_?!”

“Sergeant Barnes, please maintain calm—”

“ _No!_ ” Bucky screamed, lurching from his chair, pulling viciously at the seam of the left sleeve of his shirt, “ _You_ don’t have the fucking right to tell me to calm down! _You_ don’t have the privilege to ask me these questions, to record _my three year nightmare_ for your personal record! They stuck me full of needles, pumped me full of drugs, and strapped and fitted and _fucking welded_ metal to me!”

Pulling at the sleeve, Bucky popped threads, his anger and adrenaline allowing his fingers into the seam before ripping it free. He exposed the metal of his arm, snarling like a dog. “You want to know what happened to me in Russia? You want to know what I saw, and experienced? _Here’s your fucking answer_!”

Bucky grabbed the edge of the table—small, metal, bolted to the floor—and ripped it free, throwing it across the room.

 

* * *

 

They sedated him continuously for a week while running tests and prying apart the metal arm. They wanted to see how it worked, what it was capable of. They could only do this with Bucky so drugged up he might as well have been in a coma.

It felt like being in Russia; the memories were blurred together, and more often than not he felt sick and off balance. He could only vaguely remember the days passing.

 

* * *

 

Bucky attempted to strangle a scientist when he overheard that the government was disappointed the metal prosthetic was wired and welded into him—they wanted to analyze it further, and contemplate its replication.

 

* * *

 

They continued to sedate him, questioned him when he was just sober enough to speak coherently but under enough that he wouldn’t lash out. They recorded, to the best of their ability, everything Bucky could remember from Russia; the time of his capture to the day he killed Zola and fled the facility. They even recorded him as he slept, as they discovered that Bucky often spoke or cried out in his dreams.

It was two-thousand-thirteen before they deemed him fit to return to civilian life. They contacted his family, and made aware of the fact that he was alive and home; they did not mention his time spent in a psychiatric and science ward for the past two years.


	35. Chapter 35

Tangled up in his blanket, Bucky barely stirred when his phone began buzzing on the floor beside him. Scrunching his face into his pillow, he reached over and swiped the screen, bringing it up and over to his ear, letting out a muffled “Hello?”

“Hey, Bucky,” Steve’s voice was soft and gentle, almost tentative; “did I wake you?”

“Yeah,” Bucky admitted, “what time is it?”

“Like seven, maybe seven thirty in the morning.”

“Sonofabitch… the last time I got up this early, I had a coffee date with Nat,” Bucky moaned, lazily rubbing sleep from his eyes. No point in trying to go back now, not with Steve on the line.

“How about another?” Distant, almost as though she were close to Steve though not quite next to him, Natasha spoke.

“Nat?” Bucky mused, chuckling. Steve’s voice resonated with a small laugh.

“Yeah, she’s here with me. We, uh, we actually picked up some breakfast, and we’re bringing over a dark roast and creamer. Is your door open?”

Bucky frowned a little, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Nah, but I can make it open, give me a minute. Or two. Why are you bringing breakfast and coffee over? I could’ve met you guys at the café down the road.” Shifting, he unplugged his phone from its charger, rolling over onto his knees, bracing himself on his left hand. Sighing heavily, he stood slowly, kicking out of his blanket before shuffling towards his bedroom door.

“Well, we wanted to do something different, I suppose. Plus, it’s been a while since either of us heard from you, or saw you. We wanted to make sure you were okay.” Steve’s voice betrayed a certain twinge of concern that made Bucky’s insides warm, and Natasha’s response pulled a laugh from his chest.

“Steve was a whining, pining mess, don’t be deceived by his calm demeanor.”

Brushing along the wall, Bucky turned a corner and made his way to the front door. Holding the phone with his right hand, he reached out to the deadbolt with his left, unlocking it before pulling the door open. On the other side, Natasha and Steve were standing, carrying reusable grocery bags lightly filled with things Bucky could not see, but knew of from their description. Smiling softly, he lowered his phone, ending the call.

“Morning, soldier boy,” Steve said. Beside him, Natasha gave him a once over, her eyes sweeping across his left arm for a moment. He regarded her, eyebrow raised as her eyes met his.

“Shiny. I like it.” She said, and Bucky smiled faintly.

“Thanks. Come in, please,” Bucky said, stepping aside to allow them in. Natasha brushed past first, trailing her hip along his with a glance over her shoulder. Chuckling, Bucky turned his attention towards Steve as the brunette—no, blond now?—placed a light hand against Bucky’s left side, leaning in to kiss his temple gently.

Smiling softly, Bucky raised his gaze to meet Steve’s, brows drawn together. “Hey now,” he said. Steve smirked softly, before coming close, pressing their lips together. Moaning softly, Bucky’s hand came up to cup Steve’s cheek lightly. When they pulled away, he was all smiles, “That’s better.”

“C’mon, love birds; I need coffee, and I’m not waiting on you two.” Natasha’s voice came from the direction of Bucky’s kitchen. Biting his lip gently, Bucky nudged Steve along before closing the door. He followed Steve towards the kitchen, where Natasha was already busying herself with giving Bucky’s coffee-pot—hardly used, really—a quick look before filling it with water, dumping two heaping scoops into the filter. Steve set his bag down onto the counter, pulling out bagels, cream cheese, bacon, and a small carton of eggs.

Chuckling quietly, Bucky leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest as Steve began rummaging through his cabinets to find two skillets. “I know I’ve been kind of quiet for a few days, but is it really worth turning my apartment into a bed and breakfast?”

“It’s been a week, James; poor Stevie nearly had a heart attack,” Natasha said, starting the coffee pot before taking the carton of eggs from Steve’s grasp. Bucky glanced towards the floor, tightening his arms around himself a little as he chewed his lip. So his session with Sam and the nightmares to follow had left him displaced, but he hadn’t realized an entire week had gone by. He pulled his phone out, checking messages; Steve had messaged him once, but he’d never said anything back.

_Fuck_.

“I, uh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—” Bucky began, feeling his throat tighten a little as he looked up. Suddenly there was just Steve, and Steve’s blue eyes, and Steve’s now-blond hair, and Steve’s lips forming a smile as his hands palmed Bucky’s cheeks.

“It’s alright, Buck,” he said, pressing a kiss to his lips.

 

* * *

 

Once breakfast had been prepared—and the coffee brewed and shared between three mugs—Bucky found himself tucked between Steve and Natasha on his couch. Steve was nestled against the arm on his right, with Natasha curled, crossed legged, on his left, her back to the armrest. Her plate was balanced on her knee, and her eyes were fixed on his arm as she chewed on her bagel.

Sipping his coffee slowly, Bucky eyed her for a moment before swallowing, lowering his cup, “What are you thinking about, Nat?” He asked, licking his lips slowly.

“Look at the details, it’s made up of plates, yeah?” She inquired, lifting her eyes to his.

“Yeah,” he said, ignoring the churning in his stomach, the cold that spilled into his chest. “It, uh, it is. Two components that were fit around my arm to make a single unit; there are, uh, these wires that are connected to small motors, gear shifts and the like, I really… I really don’t know. But when I use it, sometimes it’ll make small sounds?” Bucky tried explaining it to the best of his ability, but his knowledge was painstakingly limited. Between Russia and what the States’ government had done, he couldn’t remember much of the analyzing process.

Natasha pursed her lips a little, swallowing her bite of bagel before setting her plate onto the table nearby. “May I?” She asked, holding her hand out. Bucky nodded, resting his palm in hers, letting her fingers trail back and forth across the metal and synthetic material. Her eyes followed the paths of her fingers, and her quiet musings made Bucky’s heart tremble.

“’S’like nothing I’ve ever seen. Where were you when this was put on?”

Bucky said nothing at first, trying to swallow the lump that had lodged into the base of his throat. Beside him, Steve shifted, placing a warm hand on his thigh.

“It’s alright, Bucky,” he said. Bucky nodded once.

“I...” Bucky trailed off, sighing heavily. “I was in Russia.”

Natasha’s hands stilled on his arms, and Bucky glanced over to see her eyes had gone a little vacant. Her jaw clenched and she looked up at him, a kind of sorrow that did not belong on her face present.

“Russia?” She asked after a moment. Bucky pursed his lips and nodded once. Natasha lowered her gaze slowly. “I’m from Russia,” she mumbled, and Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat.

“I know. Steve told me. I mean… this… sucked, don’t get me wrong, but don’t think that something someone else did means I’m gonna look at you any different, or anything. _You_ didn’t do this. Shit, I didn’t even know you when this happened.” Bucky tried to assure her, and Natasha’s smile was soft, but still small, and a little sad.

“Who did this?” She asked, her voice quiet though definite; she wanted to know. Steve’s hand went a little rigid against Bucky’s thigh.

“I, uh, I don’t know if you would’ve known him?” Bucky began, licking his lips a little. Natasha shrugged lightly.

“You never know.” She mused, and Bucky sighed quietly.

“A man, uh, named Zola; short, stubby, glasses-wearing guy with a thick accent. He was part of this… science division, working on a project that sounded like something out of a crazy new world order science fiction plot.” Bucky said, willing the clench in his throat and the cold in his chest to abate, breathing slowly. Steve set his plate and cup aside, sliding his hand along Bucky’s leg to take hold of his right hand. It was hard, undoubtedly, to be even as open as he was being. But he cared for Steve, and he wanted to be closer to Natasha. He wanted to trust them, to have people to rely on and feel comfortable with. And he couldn’t do that if he kept things from them.

Still, that didn’t mean it was easy.

“Zola,” Natasha repeated, her face scrunching with focus, “that sounds familiar, but not from Russia. Definitely not Russia.” She trailed off, pulling out her phone before tapping at the screen for a few moments. Bucky watched her closely, the cold in his chest dissipating at the edges, though he still felt a tremor running down his spine.

“He’s—no, _was_ Swiss,” Natasha said, eyeing Bucky for a moment before looking back down at her screen, “that’s right. He was a Swiss scientist who’d done work in Germany a few years ago.” Bucky, ignoring the glance she had given him, raised an eyebrow at her.

“How would that have been of any interest to you?” He asked. Natasha’s face drained a little, and she crinkled her nose, her mouth twisting a little towards the left.

“My adoptive father was part of the Russian Federation. He constantly talked of the politics of neighboring countries, scientific advancements and military research. He was fascinated in knowing what everyone else was up to, so much so that he cared little, for the most part, what _I_ was up to; he didn’t even notice that I was saving money or planning to do a foreign exchange transfer to the States until he saw my plane ticked on my desk. He was a good man, but an absent and unobservant father.”

Bucky frowned a little. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

Natasha shrugged again, shaking her head. “It’s alright. We talk more now than we did when I was with him in Moscow. He wasn’t overly fond of my decision to get into the sex industry, but he was happy to hear that I’d opened up and began operating my own dance studio. He knew dance was important to me; he might not have given me all of his attention, but he made the little things count, like buying my shoes for ballet, or rubbing out sore muscles when I asked him to,” Natasha smiled, her eyes distant for a moment, “he still sends me shoes sometimes.”

“Natasha,” Steve cut in, looking past Bucky at her, “what did you mean Zola _was_ Swiss? Is he no longer around?” The tone beneath Steve’s carefully worded question weighed heavily, and Bucky reached over to take up his cup of coffee once more.

“It says here that a facility had been burned down in Russia, south of Lenske; there were over a hundred casualties, all of whom were scientists ranging from little notoriety to acclaimed researchers. Zola’s remains, though badly burned, had been found among the wreckage. Salvaged paper files and hard drives indicated that Zola and his team had been working on a new project of advanced prosthetics for military personnel, deemed the “Winter Soldier” series… why they’d openly release this information on the internet is beyond me, though...” _Just swallow slowly; if they ask you questions, you can be honest. They’ll understand. They… would they?_

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky could see Steve staring at him.

“I guess they figured there was no harm in it, if most or all of the work had been destroyed,” Steve said casually, sipping from his coffee cup. Beneath Bucky’s skin, his heart was ice, and thrashing erratically.

“Well,” Natasha said, glancing over at Bucky’s arm, “not _all_ of it. But this report, this is from two-thousand twelve, and it says some of the data collected dated back to oh-eight.”

This time, Steve’s stare was not as subtle as before.

“Bucky,” Steve pressed, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

“What?” Bucky hadn’t intended for the hiss of his voice to be quite as sharp; in his peripheral, Natasha’s eyes came to his face, her expression masked.

“You’re breathing really hard. I’m… fuck, I’m sorry, we shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“No,” Bucky said, closing his eyes, the pounding in his ears making it hard to hear. But he swallowed again, breathing slowly. “It’s fine. I… I _need_ to get over this. It’s been long enough.”

“Long enough?” Natasha inquired gently, setting her phone down. Bucky breathed, deciding to ignore the fuzziness at the corners of his eyes.

“I enlisted to the army in two-thousand-four,” Bucky said softly, lacing his fingers tighter with Steve’s, staring down at his knees, “I exceeded well enough that I was put into a special sector that sent me off to train in Russia. In late two-thousand-eight, my convoy was attacked; I lost my arm being thrown from the wreckage of my truck, and was taken in the dead of night while the rest of my squad was gunned down around me. From then, until two-thousand-eleven, I was Zola’s play-thing; a rag doll he bestowed one prosthetic after another upon until this one was finished. This one, as it was, required the replacement of ribs, spinal vertebrae, collarbone, joint… anything within and around my left shoulder was swapped with grafts. When Zola had neglected to restrain me properly, I broke free, and strangled him until he died.”

There was silence on either side of him, and Bucky made it a point not to look at either of them. He didn’t need to see the horror on their faces (had he looked, though, he would have found nothing but empathy, and a quiet rage under two sets of eyes).

“After I escaped, I was found and taken to a recovery facility outside of London. From there, once I was healthy, I was brought back to the States. I…” Bucky choked quietly, bowing his head a little father as he swallowed. A small, warm hand slid across his exposed back, and Steve’s tightened a little further around his fingers. “I was kept in a ward, questioned, analyzed, tested, ripped apart and exposed like a nerve, for two years.”

“A ward…?” Natasha’s voice was quiet, “Like… a psychiatric hospital?”

Bucky said nothing, but nodded slowly. “When I said I’d been home for a year,” he mumbled, speaking more to Steve, “It’d been a year since they’d released me.”

Steve let out a quiet _Fuck_ , leaning forward to rest his forehead against Bucky’s right shoulder. Bucky continued to keep his head bowed, eyes closed for a long while as he listened to Steve and Natasha’s breathing. His heart, surprisingly, was steady, but his chest felt like ice.

They were quiet, the three of them, for a long time; Bucky’s hand was still clasped with Steve’s, and Natasha’s palm continued a gentle, slow-moving circle from Bucky’s lower back, up across his shoulders, and back down again. An ache resided within Bucky’s gut, and the fingers of his left hand trembled and twitched every so lightly between breaths. He was amazed at himself, more than anything, that he hadn’t completely shut down while telling them; but, perhaps, it was a testament to their reaction that he hadn’t gone dark. They didn’t freak out, or react in a way that made Bucky anxious, or frightened, or horrified with himself. They were silent, nurturing in their smallest of gestures.

Gently, Steve shifted, opening himself a little before pulling Bucky down slowly against his chest, the brunette’s head tucked beneath his chin. Natasha followed in suit, her small, nimble body curling slightly beside and over Bucky’s, her lips passing kisses along his left shoulder as she and Steve sandwiched him lightly on the couch. The cold that had sunk deep into his bones and compressed around his lungs throbbed, and when Bucky blinked, tears were clinging to his lashes.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Terribly sorry I haven't updated. Things have gotten crazy with midterms, work, and sports. Can't promise for sure when the next update will be, but hopefully it won't be quite as long a wait as this had been. <3

“Where did this come from?” Bucky asked softly, hours and a lengthy nap later sandwiched between Natasha and Steve, trailing his fingers through Steve’s recently lightened hair. Steve smiled softly, glancing upward towards the flecks of bangs that Bucky was playing with.

“New shoot that we did a few days ago. Manager wanted to change it up from the brown I’ve had the last few weeks. I like it well enough, but I’ll be happier when it darkens up again.” Steve mused, smiling softly as Bucky stroked his fingers along Steve’s scalp. Having had a proper chance to calm down and collect himself (and sleep rather comfortably between two gorgeous individuals), it was easier now to be so soft, so receptive to quiet conversation, where earlier that morning he’d wanted nothing more than to shut down and hide.

And, really, falling asleep against Steve’s chest had been just that: hiding.

“I like it. But I agree, I think I like the dark more.” Bucky mused softly, and Steve smiled faintly, leaning up just enough to kiss Steve gently.

Natasha, having since moved off of Bucky’s back and now curled up on the floor against the coffee table, regarded them for a moment, before smiling. “You two are cute,” she said softly, and Bucky turned his head to face her, resting his ear against Steve’s chest.

“Y’think so?” He asked. Natasha snorted softly, crinkling her nose as she twisted her mouth into a side-smile.

“Wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t, Barnes,” she commented, glancing over at Steve before returning to Bucky. “I’d had my concerns just going back and forth between the two of you and hearing one gushy detail after the next, but… I dig it, your relationship. It’s sweet.”

Bucky smiled softly, closing his eyes for a moment to listen to the steady thumping of Steve’s heart before opening his eyes again. “Thank you, Nat. I appreciate that.”

“Just don’t let our manager know you’re committed, Stevie,” Natasha said, reaching around to grab her coffee cup. Bucky wasn’t quite sure when she’d gone to refill it, but, then again, he _had_ been dozing, and Natasha was nothing if not very light and quiet in her movements.

“Why, ‘cause you know he’d exploit me and Buck?” Steve asked. Bucky frowned, glancing up at Steve.

“Exploit?”

Steve smiled, but there was a small smile on his face, “Yeah. Last time I was in a relationship while working, my manager _insisted_ on meeting the guy—to make sure that everything was good and safe, y’know? Makeup and editing can do wonders for covering up anything, but he makes it a point that his stars and crew are in safe and comfortable living environments. Which means any sign of domestic issues, drug concerns, et cetera, he helps get you cleaned up and somewhere safe. _Unfortunately_ this also means that if he feels there’s chemistry, he’ll try to rope you into a film or two.”

Bucky eyed the blond carefully, a tentative smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You’re joking, right? Please tell me you’re joking?”

Steve smiled, and shook his head slowly.

“Stevie had a boy-toy a few years ago that our boss tried getting to be in a film; he politely refused. Turned down a decent check, too,” Natasha cut in, sipping on her coffee slowly.

“Jesus,” Bucky breathed, shaking his head a little. Beneath him, Steve shrugged.

“Porn isn’t for everyone. It wasn’t for him at the time, and I couldn’t blame him. I mean, I was rather surprised our relationship managed so well then, considering he wasn’t the world’s biggest fan of my work.” Steve explained, and there was a kind of distant that churned, blanketing over his expression for a moment before he blinked and it was gone. Bucky frowned a little.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, and Steve shrugged again.

“His loss, my lesson learned. It gave me an opportunity to center myself and help me figure out what was best for me. Few years later, I’m gaining popularity and income, and then I get a call from Gwen saying there’s a devilishly handsome man asking about me at her shop,” Steve’s words sunk to the bottom of Bucky’s stomach, and his throat burned up to his cheeks. Hiding his face against Steve’s chest, Bucky grinned sheepishly as Steve laughed.

After taking a few minutes to compose himself, Bucky shifted against Steve, getting into a more comfortable hold before looking between Natasha and Steve. “What’s it like working in porn? I mean… from an audience perspective you’d think it would be fun, but I can’t imagine it’s as perfect as it seems.”

Natasha chuckled softly, shaking her head. “It’s not; not always, anyway.”

“There are some good days,” Steve cut in, glancing over at Natasha, “there are some people who are easier to work with than others, people you connect with better, so it feels a little more honest.”

“Like with Natasha?” Bucky asked.

Beside them, Natasha raised her head, looking at Steve for a long moment before smiling softly, “Yeah. Steve’s a good partner to have on set. I mean, it really stems from the fact that we’ve known each other for so long, but… it’s not just that. I know I can trust Steve endlessly with any part of me. And I know he trusts me, too.”

“I will never understand how you continue to believe _Under the Skin_ was so bad,” Steve chipped, smiling brightly at Natasha. The redhead blushed, and looked away.

“I don’t know, I just… I felt I could’ve done better.”

Bucky’s brows knit together, and he reached over with his left hand, touching Natasha’s knee. “Nat… trust me when I say, above all else, that film was one of the most artistically beautiful and erotically fascinating things I’ve ever seen. Honest to God, upon seeing it, I expected you and Steve had a thing while filming, if not previously before it. Your chemistry was _flawless_ , and the cinematography was to _die_ for.”

Natasha smiled softly, licking her lips a little. “We actually had a close friend of mine, Clint, film that one. Our manager produced it and everything, but Clint has this eye for detail—he can see things no one else has ever been able to.”

“It was without a doubt my favorite shoot,” Steve said softly. “It challenged us in ways we hadn’t previously experimented with. Any other film, any other partner, I would’ve been the dominant figure. Or we just wouldn’t have touched that subject. But with Natasha, it’s so _easy_ to be so intimately submissive.”

Bucky smiled softly when Natasha reached forward, pushing her fingers between Bucky’s metal ones, and he held onto her hand as he tried ignoring the dull ache forming between his thighs and against Steve’s leg.

“I guess it was alright,” Natasha said after a while, smiling over at Steve, her fingers still locked with Bucky’s.

“It was more than alright,” Bucky mused, catching her attention, “it was fan- _fucking_ -tastic.”

Steve chuckled, and Bucky tilted his head, “Wasn’t _Under the Skin_ the one I’d called you during?”

“Shut up, punk,” Bucky hissed quietly, feeling his ears grow hot as Steve’s head tilted back against the arm of the couch, his chest vibrating with laughter. From the corner of his eye, Bucky could see Natasha staring at them.

“Wait, you were watching that film when Steve called you? How long ago was this?” She asked, and Bucky swallowed thickly.

“Shortly after we first met. I hadn’t quite finished watching it after bumping into you at Gwen’s, and the day I decided to was when Steve wanted to get coffee, or something like that. Needless to say, his interruption did not, exactly, _interrupt_ me.” Bucky explained, and Natasha’s eyes widened some, and a smile grew on her lips.

“Is that so?” She inquired, and Bucky sighed, wishing desperately that these two fucks didn’t know how to press his embarrassment as easily as they did. “Damn, Rogers, ain’t nothing gonna keep Bucky from keeping it up for you.”

“Oh, my God,” Steve said, shaking his head.

“You two fucking suck,” Bucky whined, turning his head away.

“Well, yeah, we do, that’s kind of our job,” Natasha teased. Bucky pried his hand away from hers, and gave her the finger.

“Alright, c’mon, soldier boy,” Steve said softly nudging Bucky’s shoulders, “warm and comfortable as you are, your hip is against my stomach and it’s making the weight of the morning’s coffee extremely distressing.” Groaning quietly, Bucky shifted, but not before purposefully adding weight against Steve’s lower-abdomen, earning a throaty growl from the porn star before moving away. Steve stood slowly, stretching, before walking around the couch and disappearing down the hall.

Shifting on the couch, Bucky crossed one leg beneath himself, pushing his fingers through his hair before feeling the weight of Natasha’s eyes one him. He glanced at her, and frowned a little. “What?”

She blinked, and shook her head. “Nothing. Just haven’t seen Steve so relaxed, really, in a while. So happy.” She said, looking up at him. “I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

“You really don’t,” Bucky said softly, looking away as he bit his lip. “I mean… really, I have him to thank for everything. I didn’t expect him to be so good, or helpful, but he has been. I really… I wouldn’t be here, so…comfortable without him.”

“I think you might’ve made progress, just under different circumstances and with different people,” Natasha said softly, bringing her knees to her chest, folding her arms on them. “The universe has a funny way of following a pretty standard path; who and what decides to come in only changes minor details. You would’ve recovered, gained a sense of autonomy on your own, because that’s who you are; you could’ve given up in Russia, but you didn’t. You fought, you got out on your own. Steve and I had nothing to do with that. That was your own personal desire to _survive_.”

Swallowing slowly, Bucky nodded once. Natasha had a point; he _could_ have given up. More often than he cared to admit, he wanted to. But he knew better at the end of the day; the idea of dying in some cold, moldy cell was so awful and shameful in his mind, especially when he knew he could fight and live.

Yet, the idea that someone, anyone, other than Steve could have come into his life was preposterous; Steve had been so good, so kind; to think that just _anyone_ could have stepped into Steve’s roll had Bucky not gone to Gwen’s that day was almost terrifying. If anyone could have come into his life, that meant—had it not been Steve—Bucky might’ve have found comfort and closure, but in different ways, different means. Personal affection aside, those different ways could have been less gentle than Steve had been.

“Maybe,” Bucky said after a moment, looking over to her again, “but, honestly, if it had been anyone other than Steve, or you… I wouldn’t be nearly as happy.”

At that, Natasha smiled. And when she spoke, Bucky’s mind worked to translate the quiet Russian that had rolled off her tongue; _Sentimental boy. We wouldn’t be happy, either._


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: The song I had in mind of Natasha humming is "Come What May" from Moulin Rouge.  
> **Also: Bucky's new look: http://love-buckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/100887875326/are-you-still-doing-sleepover-friday-if-so-would-you

“You know what you need, James?” It was nearing three in the afternoon and Steve and Natasha were still lingering around his apartment. Not that Bucky could or wanted to bring himself to care—he enjoyed their company; he was relaxed in their presence—far more so than he would have been on his own. So to hear Natasha pipe up after another bout of silence, a third pot of coffee, and another episode of _Political Animals_ (no, Bucky does not see the resemblance, please, stop), he really wasn’t surprised at her opinion.

“What do I need, Natalia?” Bucky had decided after the fourth time today of Natasha addressing him so formally that he would do the same for her.

“A good haircut.” Not so surprising, yet Bucky still rolled his eyes.

“I know. I just… haven’t gotten around to it.”

“I could do it for you.” Bucky could feel the weight of Steve’s overwhelmingly bright smile to his left.

“Is that so? I think I remember Gwen mentioning something about your skill with scissors. Gonna give me a French bob? A sassy a-line? Or will you surprise me and just go wild?” Bucky inquired, raising an eyebrow at Natasha, whose eye-roll game was so strong that Steve burst into laughing beside Bucky.

“Fuck you, James.”

“Would you like to?”

“I’ll give Steve that privilege first. At any rate, I’m referring to a haircut on the head connected to your _shoulders_ , you ass. I’m just thinking if we give you a trim, add some layers and give you volume; put some shape to your hair. You have really _nice_ hair, James—I know some women who would faun over it. We’ve just gotta give it life.”

Bucky stared at Natasha for a long while, before turning his head to catch Steve’s baby blues, “I don’t speak cosmetics; can you translate that into English?”

Steve chuckled, shaking his head, and Bucky was temporarily lost in the gentle grace of Steve’s unbelievably long eyelashes caressing the tops of his cheeks. “She means she’s gonna get rid of the dead ends and make your hobo-chic look nice.”

“I like my hobo-chic, thank you very much,” Bucky said, pouting a little for emphasis.

“James,” Natasha said, her voice so stern Bucky thought she was his mother for a moment, “when was the last time your hair was cut?”

Bucky swallowed thickly, and sighed, “Before Russia.”

Natasha might have feigned something dramatic, but a flicker of empathy washed over her eyes instead. “Precisely my point. You need something new, something more flattering to who you are now. You’d be amazed what a good haircut and spa-treatment can do for the soul. Let me go through my bag, I might have some scissors,” Natasha uncrossed her legs from her position on the floor, standing fluidly before crossing around behind the couch. Bucky frowned.

“I have scissors?”

At this, Natasha placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and shook her head. “No, James. I need _my_ scissors. Just _any_ pair—God forbid an office or kitchen pair—simply _won’t_ do.”

Bucky was a man of many things, many talents and accomplishments. He was smart and athletic all through school, well-liked and respected, had pursued hobbies and ambitions of dance and engineering, had survived a nuclear-level catastrophe that _should_ have utterly destroyed him, if not killed him, yet this… this was new.

And, truthfully, Bucky was scared.

But Steve placed a hand on Bucky’s knee, and his grip was, admittedly mildly, reassuring. And Bucky knew he was in safe, good hands; he would never question Steve or Natasha’s intentions. How could he, when they, and Sam, were the only people who understood the dark places that he came from, the nightmares that he often resided within? He had to (and did) trust that they would never do anything to hurt him—at least, not intentionally.

A part of Bucky did suspect, though, that even in an unconscious perspective, they still wouldn’t harm him. Truthfully, though, it wasn’t something he was willing to test just yet.

So when Natasha came back around with a small black bag in her hand, Bucky knew he had to push aside any and all reservations regarding what was about to occur, and put his faith into her hands. And scissors.

“C’mon, James. We need to get your hair wet first; it’ll be easier to trim that way.” Natasha said, turning before going down the hall towards his bathroom. Sighing softly, Bucky glanced over at Steve, only to be met with a bemused smile and a small shake of the head. There was no getting out of this, it seemed, so he stood and followed the redhead.

Bucky was fortunate that his shower came equipped with a detachable head, to which Natasha noted would be far simpler to use than the sink or anything else. She’d had him sit on the edge of his tub while she adjusted the temperature to his liking, before using the shower head to wet his locks. The warmth cascaded from his scalp down his spine, and Bucky moaned quietly as his eyes closed, Natasha’s nimble fingers running through his hair slowly. Her fingertips were gentle, nails just long enough to scrape lightly without hurting, and Bucky was almost sad when she turned the water off.

She used the small hand towel next to the sink to squeeze-dry his hair, all the while humming quietly. Bucky decided to keep his eyes closed, listening intently as Natasha hummed, noting how gentle her hands worked, the tenderness she applied in finger-combing his hair. Her song was something unfamiliar, though soothing as the remaining warmth trickled deeper into his bones.

Natasha tucked the towel around his neck and shoulders, having him turn on the edge of the tub so his feet were resting in the small puddles left over. He heard her shifting the bath mat aside, before the soft _snip_ of scissors sounded, slicing through the first locks of his hair. Then, there was another _snip_ , followed by a third, and Bucky could feel small hairs gracing his back as they fell.

Strange as it might have been, he felt marginally lighter with each cut; like an invisible weight was slowly melting away from him as each lock was trimmed and cut down. Bucky sighed quietly as Natasha hummed, her fingers and scissors working deftly to ease the tension Bucky hadn’t realized was lingering along his shoulders and neck. All the while, her voice was tender, the gentility of her vibrato rumbling down his nerves, and as Natasha combed her fingers through his hair, Bucky felt at peace.

There was a shift in the atmosphere even though Natasha’s voice continued to ring, and Bucky knew Steve had joined them in the doorway. The frame creaked ever so lightly, and Bucky hummed softly as Natasha repeated the melody; having heard it a few times, he found that it wasn’t too difficult to mimic, and where his voice was low and rugged, lacking years since he last sang, he liked to believe that his and Natasha’s combined voices wasn’t all that bad.

Natasha’s fingers combed periodically through his hair, no doubt checking the length and making small snips here and there to even his hair out, before he heard her set the scissors aside. Suddenly both hands were in his hair, dragging through and shaking out the left over cut pieces. Bucky tilted his head back, sighing softly as she stroked his hair, her hands shifting from work to comfort, her fingers massaging gently as the back of his head came to rest against her stomach. Slowly, he opened his eyes, focusing his gaze at her before she overwhelmed him with her presence, and her lips brushed against his forehead.

“Turn him around Nat, I wanna see,” Steve’s voice came, and Natasha smiled against Bucky’s skin before helping him shift on the tub. Bucky looked over to Steve, shaking his head a little. His hair felt lighter, shorter, and he looked to the floor briefly to see clumps of hair scattered about. But when he returned to meet Steve’s eyes, there was a kind of adoration that made his heart skitter erratically in his chest.

“Wow,” Steve said softly, smiling lightly, “Buck, you… look good. Really good. C’mere, you’ve gotta see yourself.” Steve held out a hand, and Bucky stood slowly, reaching over to take it as Steve directed him to the mirror above his sink. And when he caught his reflection, he almost couldn’t recognize himself. Natasha had taken off only a few inches, but it was no longer one length, one layer of disheveled ex-military. There was something different about the way his hair hung around his face, about the way it made him look less haunted and more… himself.

Reaching up, Bucky carted a hand through it, feeling how smooth the layers felt, how airy it was now that it wasn’t weighed down by so much _dead_ hair—until now, feeling his hair, he hadn’t noticed how awful his hair had felt. But Natasha had done something wonderful, and Bucky smiled despite the twisting emotions that threatened to make him tear up.

“You can still pull it back if you need to, you’ll just need to put that pony a little higher to compensate for the shorter layers on top,” Natasha explained, standing on his right while admiring his reflection. Bucky slid an arm around her waist, resting a cheek against her head.

“Thank you, Natalia,” he said softly. “I… I really appreciate this.”

“I’m glad,” she mused, her hand rubbing circles against his back as Steve leaned over and kissed his cheek.


	38. Chapter 38

_The procedure has started_ …

_Please just kill me, kill me, killmekillmekillme—_

_The ten places I’ve marked—_

_Remove everything—_

“…Bucky…”

_No needs for anesthetics._

“…Bucky…!”

_The pain will be cleansing…_

_Everything will be replaced…_

_Subject zero-zero-one_

_The Winter Soldier_

_Soldier_

_Soldier_

_Soldier_

“Bucky!!”

Gasping, his eyes flew open.  There was snow, fire, white walls and the smell of blood washing through him all at once; tools were at his arm and hands were holding him down; legs kicking, chest tight and throat feeling like it was being squeezed.  He blinked, choking as he tried to breathe, tried to fight, tried to pull himself away.  And when the hands remained, grappling, fingers digging, voices invading the crowd of white noise in his head his eyes narrowed and his fingers turned to claws.  He lashed first with the right arm, then the left, and there was a cry of pain that didn’t belong to his lips before a slimmer set of arms and—legs… a body looping around his, restricting him, holding him down.

Bucky struggled, trembling and whimpering as he struggled against this vice grip around his body, before blinking away the snow and the tools and the memories.  They melted away, running across his vision like water on glass, as the darkness of the room became apparent to him.  The arms and legs wrapped around him were pale and slender; a hand with a set of red nails was digging into his shoulder.  Presumably belonging to a woman— _who…?_

“James,” the voice was quiet, stern, unshaken, “breathe.  Breathe, James.  It’s okay.  You’re okay.  You’re safe.  You’re home, in your apartment in Brooklyn.  You’re in the United States.  It’s two-thousand-fourteen.  You’re alright.  You’re okay.  You’re safe.  You’re with me—Natasha.  You like to call me Natalia.  Steve is here, too.  You’re okay.”

Swallowing thickly, Bucky’s trembling grew as he blinked slowly, trying to breathe, trying to register Natasha’s words.  Natasha—Natalia… _Natalia_.  Yes, yes that was right.  Natalia.  Steve.  Steve… _Steve_.

Opening his eyes again, Bucky looked over to a slumped figure, broad shouldered and head bowed.  He could faintly see Steve’s blond hair in the darkness of the room—it was his room; they were on his floor, with pillows and blankets, and the bed stripped of everything nearby save for the mattress.  Choking quietly as his heart battered against his ribs, Bucky returned his focus to Steve, who still hadn’t shifted from his position.  His back was to Bucky.

“Steve,” Natasha’s voice came from behind his right shoulder, her lips not far from the back of his head, “Steve, are you alright?”

There was no response.

“Steven,” Natasha continued, “talk to me.”

“I’m okay,” came Steve’s voice, quiet, reserved.  Bucky’s heart tightened.  “Is Buck okay?”

“He’s alright.  I’ve got him.  You’re okay, Bucky.  Right?”

Bucky couldn’t speak; he nodded, humming weakly.  Why wasn’t Steve looking at him?  What had he done?  _Oh, God… please, please, please, please…_

“Steve, look at me.”  Natasha eased, keeping her limbs locked tight around Bucky.  She wasn’t hurting him, but rather keeping him restrained.  _Thank you, Natalia… thank you_.

Steve turned his head slowly, his jaw clenched; in the dark it was hard to distinguish, but Bucky could see the swelling already beginning to form, and the smear of blood across his right cheekbone and on the side of his eye.  He felt hollow, and, dreading every second of it, Bucky turned his eyes down to his left hand, seeing a streak of red across his knuckles.  Choking again, he swallowed his anger and hurt.

“I’m okay,” Steve’s voice shifted from reservation to concern within those two words, and Bucky felt his presence like an overwhelming shift in existence, “Bucky, Bucky, no, no, I’m okay.  It’s nothing, you’re okay.  Hey, hey, baby… _baby_ …”

“Steve, go get some water.  I’ve got him.”  Natasha said.  Steve made a sound of protest, before Bucky felt the shift and heard his footsteps leave.  “Shh, shh, Bucky— _James_.  James, hey, listen to me.  Listen…  You had a bad dream.  It was not your fault.  You felt unsafe, you felt the need to protect yourself.  We made a mistake, and that’s not your fault.  Steve is okay.  He is okay, and so are you.  I’m right here with you.”

But there was a darkness heavier than the room around him that pressed, and Bucky pulled at her arms again, shaking his head.  He wanted to dig his fingers into his hair, to pull and to claw at himself.  He’d felt so safe, so comfortable; coming into his own and reveling in the security that his friends had provided him and he’d lashed out instead.  He’d lashed out and he’d hurt Steve and made Natasha hold him down.  His heart was aching and ripping itself apart with the confines of his chest, and he wanted to scream and suffocate into his pillow.

He opted for her arm instead, burying his face into the curve of it against his chest.  Though he would never admit it, he was grateful that she let him wail for the second that he did, and for the many moments of quiet tears after.  Instead, she kept herself around him, whispering softly into the nape of his neck and into his hair, leaving butterfly kisses against him.

At some point, Steve had returned, sitting down in front of Bucky before using a cool, wet cloth to wipe his brow and the parts of his face that were accessible.  Tears turned to just miserable hiccups, and Steve was able to lift Bucky’s face to clean his skin and wipe away his grief.  Bucky, much as he might have wanted to, couldn’t bring himself to look Steve in the eye.

He wanted to curl in on himself; he wanted to curl into a ball and keep to himself, to avoid both Natasha and Steve; he’d hurt them both in more ways than one.  He’d hurt himself, for lashing out so violently at the both of them.  He’d probably even scared them, made them question him or his security.  Bucky knew he would need to see Sam again soon, to talk through this, to figure out how to move forward and how to get beyond these dreams and these reactions.  But for now… he couldn’t.  He couldn’t.  He couldn’t— _I can’t, I can’t, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_ …

“Nat,” Steve’s voice was barely audible, and Natasha slowly relaxed her arms, letting go of Bucky.  If he’d felt an inclination to fight or to flee, he had no time to act on it.  Steve pulled him close, tucking his chin onto the top of Bucky’s head, his hands rubbing his back and shoulders gently.  “Hey, hey… it’s alright.”

Bucky shook his head, his left arm limp and purposefully kept away from Steve’s body, while his right hand was palmed against Steve’s chest to feel his heart.  The rhythm was steady, and strong; if he’d felt betrayed or afraid at Bucky’s outburst, he’d trained himself not to show it in the slightest.  But Bucky knew better; he’d known that training, even if he might have lost it for himself.

“Did I ever tell you about the time that I was preparing for one of my midterms in college,” Steve began, his tone soft and inquisitive, “and I had to exhibit my proficiency with anatomy?  Well, I’d been lazy, and one hell of a procrastinator, and I showed up two days before the midterm without anything even started.  My teacher was absolutely disappointed and livid with me—they had these huge expectations of me since I was typically a good student and always got my work done early, if not on time.  So I made all these promises that I’d have my shit together, and I came into my midterm wearing nothing but a pair of borrowed booty-shorts, and as I posed for the rest of the class, I did a self-portrait in front of my teacher.”

Bucky couldn’t help but let out a weak chuckle.  “Didn’t take you for the asshole-student-at-the-midterms, Rogers.”

“I got an A, so what did I care?”

“Pretty sure your teacher also had the hots for you.” Natasha said smoothly, and Steve laughed; the sound resonated in his chest and Bucky sighed deeply, relaxing further against him.

“Pretty sure my TA forged the grade.”

“I disavow any speculation of my part in your final grade, Rogers.”

Bucky blinked, turning his head to look at Natasha.  “You were the TA for his class?”

“Da,” Natasha said with a smile, “and his teacher had no idea we were friends.”

“I think they suspected it towards the end, but by then the grades were posted; it really wasn’t until graduation that they made the connection.  I don’t think I would’ve passed that class without your intervention.”  Steve mused.  Natasha smiled, and Bucky thought it was sweet the way her eyes softened at the memory.

“I don’t think you would’ve done a lot of things without my intervention, but that’s for another time, Rogers.”  Bucky smiled faintly, sniffling quietly.

“Thank you,” he admitted.

“You’re welcome, Buck,” Steve told him, pressing a kiss to his hair.

“I’m…”

“James,” Natasha cut him off mid-apology, “we know you’re sorry.  We accept your apology.  This isn’t easy for you.  It will take time, and there will be snags along the way.  But we’re here for you.  We will always be here for you.  We will love you through every up and down.  And we will need to reassure you of that, and that’s okay.  _You_ are okay.”

“She’s right,” Steve said, shifting his hold on Bucky before tilting his head up with a finger.  There was swelling along his cheek and eye, but the blood was gone, and whatever bruising might occur was still young and non-existence.  Still, Bucky felt a twist in his gut.  “You had a rough night.  I’ve had them, too.  We’ll get through this together.  I care for you, and I know Natasha does, too.  If you need to cry or stay curled up, if you need to let it out, you can.  We’re here.  Till the end of the line, alright?”

Bucky nodded slowly, feeling the corner of his mouth pulling for a smile.


	39. Chapter 39

He’d fallen asleep at some point, for when he stirred there was a trickling of sunlight coming through the drawn shades of his bedroom, and he was alone.  Blinking slowly, Bucky drew himself up onto his elbows, groaning quietly at a distant memory of Natasha’s arms locked around his limbs; swallowing thickly, he glanced down at his left hand, flexing the metal fingers slowly. 

There was a flash of red across the knuckles, but when he looked again it was gone, and he sighed deeply.  With a clench in his jaw, Bucky rolled slowly, climbing onto his hands and knees before standing from the mattress on the floor.  His knees creaked quietly, spine popping in a few spots as he straightened.  Any signs of distress, or the fact that he had guests at all, were gone, and he tried as casually as possible to ease himself into a state of calm.  He could still hear their words in the back of his mind—and… that, he had to remind himself, was the most important part.

Shuffling, Bucky crossed the threshold of his bedroom, stumbling lightly down the short hallway before stepping into the living room.  There was a lamp in the corner emitting a warm light, and Natasha’s nose was dipped into a book while her nimble body was curled into an arm chair that Bucky hadn’t seen occupied, whether by himself or anyone else, in months.  She only spared him a quick glance and a smile before she returned to her book.

“Good morning, sleepy head,” she said simply, thumbing to the next page.

“I didn’t expect you to still be here,” he admitted quickly, mumbling quietly.  Natasha hummed softly, and Bucky sunk down into the couch across from her.

“Steve and I agreed that it would be best if I did, just to make sure you were okay when you woke up,” she explained, drawing a small place-holder from her lap to the center of her book, before closing it, “and, even if we hadn’t, I still would have stayed.  I know Steve would have, too, but work calls.”

Bucky nodded, swallowing slowly, the image of the freshly forming and bloodied bruise he’d left on Steve’s cheek.  “Is he—what about…?”

Natasha’s brow creased, but her eyes were kind, “He’ll be okay, James,” she soothed, her voice soft, “it’s nothing some makeup and camera angling can’t fix.  He’s not mad.”

That didn’t stop Bucky from frowning, and avoiding her gaze, “He should be.”

“Well, he’s not.  He’s an ex-soldier, too, you remember.  He understands.”

“That doesn’t excuse what happened, Natalia,” Bucky’s fingers curled lightly, “I…  I was…”

“You were having an episode.  You felt displaced, attacked, held down against your will.  Against our better judgement, we tried to keep you from thrashing when we should have eased you into a better state of consciousness.  We instigated your retaliation, Steve and I know this.  You beating yourself up does no one any favors, least of all yourself.”  Bucky pursed his lips, looking briefly over at her.  She was leaning forward some, her wrists resting on her knees, fingers brushing.

“James,” she continued, “I understand you’re upset—it’s _okay_ to be upset.  It’s okay to feel bad for hurting Steve.  But it wasn’t your fault.  He’s okay, he’ll be okay, and he doesn’t blame you.  He will _never_ blame you for what happened this morning.  Even if he didn’t have first-hand experience of being in your situation, he _still_ would not be upset with you.  So, please, stop letting your guilt eat you alive.”

Bucky let out a quiet chuckle, looking down at his knuckles again, “Easier said than done.”

He could hear the smile in her voice, “I know,” Natasha said.  There was a shift and she was crossing to him, kneeling down on the floor next to him to look him in the eye, “but I’ll tell you what: the sooner you start seeing yourself from Steve’s perspective, or from mine, and you stop letting your demons get the better of you, the easier it will be to do.”

“You make it sound so… simple.”  Bucky admitted, and Natasha smiled, reaching up to slide her fingers between his.

“It can be if you let it.  It’ll take time, though.  Make no mistake of that.”

There was a tug at the corner of his mouth, and Bucky raised their hands to kiss Natasha’s fingers gently.  She smiled at him, her own mouth twisting lightly into a half smile as she brought her hand to his cheek, thumb stroking the soft stubble that clung to his skin.  A sigh left him as he leaned into her hand. 

“Oh, my sweet, big baby,” she said, crawling onto the couch next to him before pulling him into her arms, “you’re alright, James.  You’re a good man, you know.”

The laugh that came from him surprised him just as much, but he shifted, twisting on the couch so to lay his head in her lap.  He looked up at her, smiling as her hands trailed through his hair.  “No, I’m not…  But I think you and Steve are the only ones who understand that.”

“God, it must be a soldier thing,” Natasha sighed, and Bucky frowned, “you’re so dramatic.  Just like Steve.”

“You do it, too, you know,” Bucky mused, smirking faintly at her, “and if you’re just as dramatic as we are, then there’s something you’re not telling me, Natalia.”

She laughed, but her eyes darkened.  “There are a lot of things I haven’t told you, James.”

“I’m all ears if you’re willing to share.  It’d be nice to hear about someone else, and not be the center of attention.”  Natasha rolled her eyes, but the upturn at the corner of her mouth remained.

“I’m nothing remarkable like Steve—didn’t go off to war to serve my country or cover college debt.  Just lived a long and seemingly-endless childhood with a marginally absent father who excelled in espionage and politics.”

“You said you dance,” Bucky mused; while hearing of her childhood and of her knowledge of her father’s work enticed his curiosity, he knew a troubling subject when it raised its malicious head.  It wouldn’t be fair to put that on her if she wasn’t ready for it.  “And, I mean, I know from experience how good you are at dancing.”

Natasha smiled, trailing her thumb along Bucky’s hairline, “I got into ballet first when I was little.  Rehearsed in different private classes and even went to school for it in Russia until my late teens.  I remember wanting so badly to get into Vaganova, but I took an opportunity to study abroad and came to America instead, to continue dancing here as well as take up studies in sociology.  My father was… disappointed, to say the least, but I don’t regret leaving, even if it meant I never got the chance to pursue a dream.  If I hadn’t come, I wouldn’t have met Steve, or you.”

Bucky smiled, taking the hand of hers that rested against his stomach, before pressing a kiss to her palm.  Natasha chuckled, shaking her head a little.

“I know,” she continued, “it’s a silly sentiment, but it’s true.  I was so unsure of my decision to travel and to come here, and when I met Steve it was like… reassurance that I’d made the right choice for myself.  And he knows this—I’ve told him before how much he means to me.  It doesn’t stop me from missing what _could_ have been, though.”

“It never will,” Bucky said softly, “but that doesn’t mean you can’t have something like it, right?  You mentioned having a studio—have you thought to teach ballet?  Or, if that doesn’t suit you, I’m sure there are some academies here that could give you the same rigorous, competitive learning environment?”

Natasha smiled, though there was a kind of pain behind it, “I’m too old, now, James.  But I appreciate you thinking of it.”

Bucky scoffed, “You’re never too old to pursue a dream, Natalia.”

“Perhaps,” she mused, glancing away for a moment, “still, I wouldn’t trade anything I have here for that.  America isn’t always the shining land of opportunity economically or morally, but the relationships and memories I have here may not have been ones that I would have had in Russia.”

“You said it yourself, though,” Bucky said quietly, “fate has a way of following a pretty set path.  You might not have found Steve or me, but you would have had close relationships, you would have had good opportunities.  Don’t discredit yourself or your dreams; I think you should dust off your shoes and try.”

“That’ll stir something—‘renowned porn-star tries her hand at professional ballet’!”  Natasha laughed, waving her hand in the air at the mock title.  Bucky smiled.

“I think you should.”  He said.  Natasha lowered her gaze, and sighed.

“Silly boy,” she mused, combing her fingers through his hair again.  “Maybe someday; for now, while this life isn’t glamorous, it’s alright.  It makes me happy, to have the people in my life that I do, and to do something that makes me feel liberated—well, as liberated as sucking cock can be.”

Bucky snorted quietly, relaxing against her.  “Speaking of which,” he chimed, “when do you and Steve get another go at a film together?”

Natasha smirked, “Well, he’s a bit tied up with his newest film with Brock—they were supposed to have it wrapped up by now, but Brock was out sick, and there was something about footage getting leaked, so they’re redoing parts to keep it a surprise.  It’s really quite amazing how finicky the industry can be about sex and the sale of sex, but it is what it is.  I have a few short things lined up, but I’m sure Steve and I will partner up again in the future.”

“Mm, good,” Bucky mused, rubbing his thumb along the back of her hand, “ _Under the Skin_ was something special, and you two should absolutely do more work together.”

“Be careful what you wish for, lover boy,” Natasha said, “There could be additional conditions to that request.”

“Such as?” 

Natasha smirked, “Keep wishing to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you spot the bit that wasn't mine? ;D (credit to a piece of dialogue is in this panel http://fuckyeahbuckynatasha.tumblr.com/post/27956540539/youre-a-good-man-not-really-no-but-youre)


	40. Chapter 40

“How’d the shoot go today?”

Steve’s answer started with a long, tired sigh, and Bucky felt a small, empathetic smile twist at his lips.  “Well,” the blond began, a quiet sound of shuffling from the other end of the line cutting over the end of his voice, “it was long.  Almost insufferably.  Brock is a great guy and a great partner, but our camera guys weren’t getting the shots our director wanted, and then of course the producer had some creative input that pushed us back.  It’s really quite a blessing that I’ve been trained to maintain an erection because I would’ve been fucked halfway through.”

Bucky smiled, shifting against the pillows he had propped against the wall of his bedroom, the blanket haphazardly tangled over and between his legs.  Natasha had left earlier in the afternoon after their long talk and some breakfast, and Bucky had opted to stay inside for the remainder of his day.  He’d decided around quarter after nine to give Steve a call, wanting to make sure that the blond was alright after what had happened— _not that it mattered, Steve didn’t even let me get a word in about it before assuring me that everything was fine_.

“As it is, we still have to do a few more shots to finish it up before it goes to post.  If this was any more intensive, I’d almost believe I was doing films for Hollywood and not Sexywood.”

Bucky snorted, dragging his hand across his chest to rest his palm against his heart.  “That was bad, even for you.”

“I know,” he could hear the smile in Steve’s voice, “but I’m serious.  It’s porn.  It’s not an A-list.”

“You never know, someone might see your work and think you’ve got it in you for acting.”  Bucky suggested, smiling faintly as he let his eyes close.  Steve hummed from the other end, a rush of water painting an image of a sink in a bathroom or a kitchen in Bucky’s mind.

“Acting’s really not my thing.  I’m not a big fan of crowds—as it is, it took a lot for Nat to get me into the industry I’m in now because of all of the people and being so exposed in front of them.  But we have a good crew and we’re all mutually considerate of one another’s privacy, so it got easier.  But places like Los Angeles?  Hollywood?  Hell, even Brooklyn can be a bit stifling at times.”

“I never took you for one to struggle with crowds.”  Bucky mused.

“Crowds, social gatherings in general.  It’s… not something I try to let bother me too much, and if I’m with someone I’m comfortable with it’s not too bad because I’m with someone I can easily escape to, you know?  But when I’m by myself?  It’s a struggle—or, rather, it can be.”  Bucky nodded slowly, as though Steve were there to see it. 

“Has it always been like that for you?”

“Yeah,” more shuffling, the sound of something being set onto a surface—it was heavy, like a mug or a thick glass onto a table—before Steve sighed quietly on the other end of the line, “it was actually worse before I went into the army.  That time I told you about in my art class was probably the most bodacious thing I’d done in front of a group of people.  Otherwise I kind of kept to myself, didn’t really talk to anyone other than Natasha.  After being in the army, it was easier to go out and function amongst crowds; I’d done it as a soldier, I had to learn how to be comfortable among so many people.  So when I went out into public after coming home, I did it under the… role, I suppose, of being a soldier again.”

“And you said acting wasn’t your forte,” Bucky teased, and Steve’s laugh was warm and hearty through the phone. 

“I think there’s a difference somewhere in there, but you win this round, soldier boy,” Bucky felt his cheeks warm as he snatched up a pillow and tucked it against his chest.  There was a fluttering in his stomach that tickled along his skin and wrapped around to travel up his spine, and Bucky nestled against the pillows at his back while cuddling the one against his chest just a little closer.

“I like that—winning.”

“I’m sure you do,” there was a snark in Steve’s voice and Bucky bit his lip gently, “I… assume since Natasha hung around with you for most of today that you’re doing better?  She didn’t give me many details when I asked her.  Just said to talk to you.”

“She’s real bent on us talking to each other, isn’t she?”  Bucky mused, swallowing slowly.  Steve hummed, and Bucky breathed quietly.  “Yeah, I’m okay.  We talked for a really long time, she told me that what happened wasn’t my fault and it’s okay, and that I will be okay.  And I believe her, and you, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling bad about it, but she told me to stop letting it eat at me—that, you know, it’s okay to feel upset over what happened, but to understand that it was an accident.”

“Sounds like Nat.  She’s right, too, but you know that already,” Steve said gently, and Bucky smiled.

“Yeah.  It just… it’ll take time.  And I’m so sorry, Steve, I really am.  And I know you’re probably tired of hearing me say that, but I have to.  I want to believe and I do, but I still need to apologize.”

“I know, Buck,” Steve’s voice was barely above a whisper, and Bucky blinked back tears he wasn’t aware were forming until one threatened to spill past the corner of his eye.  A long moment of silence passed between them, with Bucky choking down the ache of grief and regret in his throat and Steve giving him that moment.  “I know you need to.  I know you need to apologize, and I know exactly how you feel… because I did the same thing you did.  To Natasha.”

Bucky swallowed, blinking slowly.  “What do you mean?”

Steve sighed quietly, and Bucky could imagine the hard set to his jaw just before talking about something uncomfortable.  “Right after I came home, I wasn’t… my usual bubbly self; I wasn’t the person I was when I left—and reasonably so.  Enlisting and going overseas really changes a person, and it did not leave me in the best of graces when I came back.  I was often reclusive or angry, or really tired and unwilling to do much of anything…”

_Steve had his moments of darkness._   That was… Gwen had said that.  It felt like a lifetime ago.

“…I know part of it had to do with coming home to virtually nothing except for Natasha and the portfolios and degree I’d left behind.  Not to say I think so little of Nat or anything of that, but… you know, it was different from the people I’d worked with when they came home to loved ones and close friends.  But…  I’m so thankful for Natasha; if not for her, I wouldn’t… I don’t think I’d really be _me_ …”

“What makes you say that?”  Bucky’s voice was quiet, almost hoarse.  There was a tightness curling around his throat that, no matter how thickly or repeatedly he swallowed, would not dissipate.

Through the phone, Steve sighed, clearing his throat.  “I wasn’t… good, Buck.  I was volatile, cold…  When I said I did the same you did, I mean… I—I had awful nightmares for months after coming home.  I went to therapy, I tried little things at home to help me relax when I refused to leave the apartment I was sharing with Natasha and none of it was working.  I would wake up just—fuck—just _screaming_ and Nat would always be there to calm me down…

“But there were nights where I just couldn’t _see_ her, I only… saw people I wanted to hurt, people who’d done wrong by others, whether they were the quote-unquote-enemy or they were part of my squad.  There were nights where I could hear her voice clear as day in the back of my head but it just _didn’t matter_ because I couldn’t see her, I could only feel someone holding me down.  And I retaliated…”

Steve went quiet for a moment, and Bucky couldn’t blame him.  His heart was hammering against his ribs as he could imagine the scenes so clearly—but instead of Steve he was seeing himself, tangled up in sheets and screaming, with sweat on his face and in his hair at the memory.  Instead of Natasha, Steve was in her place, holding him steady, trying to calm and soothe him, and he could see himself lashing out exactly as he’d already done…

It made his heart hurt.  His body felt cold and Bucky blinked, squeezing his eyes shut as tears rolled down the sides of his face.  It had taken so much for Steve to be so honest and so open with him, and each new piece of himself just made Bucky hurt more at the idea that someone as sweet and compassionate as _Steve_ could have suffered so atrociously.  That someone like Steve, who’d come so far to be the better and brighter person, was once someone so dark and lost. 

_He’s just like me…  He looks at me and talks to me as a broken man because_ he’s _a broken man, too…  Fragments of people we used to be, and we’re piecing ourselves together with the best and worst parts of one another…_

“There was one night I attacked her so badly I put her in the hospital overnight.  I admitted myself for psychiatric care even though she protested later and assured the staff that I was okay, that she trusted me…”  Steve’s voice sounded so flat, so monotonous that Bucky just wanted to cry and make him stop talking.  Not that it was hard to imagine the event, Bucky could picture it clearly; but the fact that for Steve it was such an experience that it virtually left him soulless was more than Bucky could stand to hear.

But the burn that twisted his gut like a knife persisted, and Bucky choked, “What—did you do?”

“She’d been straddling me, trying to wake me up.  I lashed so badly it knocked her into the wall.  I… I don’t know how that didn’t snap me out of it, but I remember… really _waking up_ and my… my hands were…”  Steve’s voice faltered, before he sighed heavily, and Bucky clenched his jaw, “I was strangling her.”

“God, Steve…”

While it hurt, to hear this, to hear that Steve had been at such a low in his life that he’d physically assaulted someone so important in his life, Bucky knew that, deep down, this was _stupidly and horrendously_ good for them.  They were taking a chance to dig deep and see the absolute _worst_ parts of their pasts—well, Bucky was seeing into Steve’s; Steve still had yet to really understand the weight of Bucky’s history with psychiatric evaluation and recovery.  But this was a stepping stone, and Bucky knew in some small way that this was important, and necessary.

And he knew, if he were to ask Steve—at a better time, of course—that he would agree.

The silence might have once felt stifling, but Bucky accepted it as a moment of calm, a reprieve from the storm of emotion that stirred between them.  He listened carefully, taking note of the way Steve’s rattling breath evened out, until it was almost languid.  His tears had dried on his face, and he scrubbed at them while breathing out through his nose.

“Thank you for telling me,” Bucky said slowly after another moment, and had Steve not hummed in response, Bucky would have thought that he hadn’t heard, “I… really, Steve…”

“You’re welcome, Buck.  It wouldn’t—it’s normally not that hard for me.  Natasha and I have been fortunate to talk it through and work it out, and while it’s not our favorite memory, it is one that is past us.  If anything, I think it’s made us closer.  And it’s part of why she’s so protective of me.”

“I can’t say I blame her.  You’re just too precious for this world, Captain,” Bucky teased half-heartedly, and he smiled when he heard Steve’s quiet laugh resonate from the end of the line.  “Made you laugh.”

“That you did, soldier boy,” Steve mused, “thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”


	41. Chapter 41

Though it had only been a week since his last session, the fervor in which Bucky shared new experiences with Sam was as if it had been months since he last saw the man.  He’d remembered entering the office, easing himself out of his light jacket, before taking a seat in the usual spot to the right side of the sofa beside the coffee table.  No sooner had Sam sat and offered him some water had Bucky launched into new stories about Steve and Natasha, the things he was learning about his steadfast companions and himself. 

There were times where it was this easy, to be so open and chatty about his life; it had been easier years ago before he’d gone to war, back when he was still in college and still, relatively, carefree.  Admittedly, if Bucky were to think about it in any great detail, he would find it difficult to pinpoint exactly when his excited nature to speak and share so intimately about himself stopped; but to slide back into it, with his therapist no less, was as near easy as it was to simply breathe.

Perhaps it was circumstance; perhaps it was the fact that he was beginning to unfurl and open up to those who had come into his life.  Regardless, Bucky moved from one story to the next, starting with how smoothly Steve and Natasha accepted the details of his captivity, Natasha’s comfort and compassionate affection, and Steve’s understanding of his struggles.  All the while, Sam listened with a patient ear and a soft smile, nodding now and then and adding a word or comment here and there, encouraging Bucky.

He didn’t share of the early morning nightmare, or when he struck Steve.  As it was, he was still coming to grips with the aftermath of the event, and the hard past that Steve had been brave enough to share with him.  Bucky knew that it was important to be honest with Sam, to share even in the grittier details to come to better terms with them, but he’d long since discovered, for himself more than anything, that some things could wait before being shared.  This particular case, he’d decided, was one of those.

When Bucky took a chance to breathe, he glanced over at Sam, finding a kind of warm smile that he’d never quite seen before, “What?”  he asked, chuckling quietly under his breath.

Sam shook his head slowly, the collar of his sweater hanging low enough to reveal a sharp collarbone, and the gleam of a chain around his neck.  “You’re just so much happier now, Bucky,” he said slowly, tilting his head a little to the side.  “When you came to me, you were so… introverted, so reclusive.  And you had every right to be, with what happened and how you were treated when you were brought home.  It’s just absolutely incredible to see the kind of change you’ve undergone.”

Bucky felt his face warm, starting along the sides of his throat and creeping up across his nose.  He lowered his gaze, looking down at his hands for a moment, the sunlight gleaming off of his fingers and shining lightly against his right palm.  “I didn’t… expect it to be like this.  I didn’t expect these people to have this kind of impact on me.  Sometimes it doesn’t even feel real, the kind of progress I’ve made with them, with you.  I…  I often worry I’m going to say something or do something that exposes too much of me and they’ll run away, but they haven’t yet.  I’ve… lashed out on more than one occasion and shared some really _horrid_ things but they’re still here…”

“They’re good people who understand,” Sam said simply, the smile never leaving his features, “with Steve being a soldier and Natasha having her own experiences, they’re people who understand that the world and its inhabitants can be viciously cruel.  They’re here to show you that you can come back from it, changed but better than you were left.”

“I still can’t…quite believe how they came into my life.  It was all happenstance and complete strangers putting faith in someone who looked as dark and miserable as he felt.  And it’s turned into something straight out of some Blockbuster romantic comedy, or some shit.”

“Where do you think Hollywood gets it?  It can’t all be pulled out of nothing, right?”  Sam gave Bucky a wide, gap-toothed grin and Bucky couldn’t help but reciprocate.  It felt good, to smile and feel light.  The past few days had felt so claustrophobic and tight, squeezing the life from Bucky’s soul with only Natasha and Steve to ebb the edges away just enough to breathe and sleep.  But when he woke that morning, with two separate good morning texts from both his blond beauty and redheaded mother hen, he’d felt a kind of weight lift from his chest.

Swallowing slowly, Bucky leaned back into the couch a little, letting himself breathe deeply.  Sometimes it was hard to remember just how _easy_ it really could be, if he let it be.  Steve, bless his heart, tried so often to coax Bucky into a place where it could be easier; but he knew, as well as Bucky, that there were days where the light hearted approach and the laughter just couldn’t exist.  But there was a growing understanding, as well, that it would always come back, no matter how thick the dark persisted.

“I would like to ask you something, though,” Sam said, softening his tone.  Bucky looked back up at him, searching his eyes for a moment.  There was a tickling in the back of his mind, and he nodded once.  “Have you given it any more thought, to call your family?”

Where once he might have anticipated a clenching of the stomach, accompanied by the flutter of nerves and anxiety curling and spitting in his stomach, this time Bucky felt a sense of quiet within himself.  He hadn’t given it too much thought, given that he’d been so occupied with other stressing matters.  But Sam… had a point, one that he’d tried to make Bucky see a week ago.  Whether of his own stubborn nature, or simply being ignorant to it, Bucky hadn’t delved into the opportunity to contact his family.

Sam had been right, though; it wasn’t fair to his family—his sister, his mother or father—to leave them in the dark.  It had been over a year—would they forgive him?  Would they understand his need to be alone, to be away, to come to the reality that he was not the same boy who left, but a completely changed and haunted man?  _Of course they would; they’re your family, and they love you.  Pa was a war vet, just like you.  If Ma could help him, she can help you, and so can Becca.  You’ll be alright_.

Sighing slowly, Bucky chewed gently on his lower lip.  “I haven’t, I’ll be honest.  But…  Maybe, before, I just wasn’t in the right place to contact them.  And, who knows, maybe I’m still not really in a place where I feel quite right, but I…  I can’t leave them in the dark forever, either.”

Sam nodded slowly, his eyes soft and an accepting smile faintly gracing his lips.  “I’m glad to hear you say that.  I can’t promise it’ll be perfect or easy, and it might get bumpy along the way.  But from what you’ve told me of them, I have a feeling it’ll be better than you might have originally anticipated.  If nothing else, they seem like the kind of people to do their best to accept everything you are now.”

Bucky glanced up at him, a wisp of his hair hanging just over his eye; it felt like peeking through a thin curtain, hiding, uncertain, “You really think so?”

“I would like to believe it, yes,” Sam soothed, folding his hands in front of him, “do you still have any of their numbers?”

Bucky nodded slowly, sliding his phone out of his pocket.  He swiped the screen and opened his contacts, swiping through before finding his mother’s cell phone number.  He opened her information, his thumb hovering over the small phone icon before hesitating.  A gentle thrumming began to beat to life within his chest, and when he tried to swallow, it was like choking on sand.

“It’s okay,” Sam affirmed.  “If you’re not ready, you don’t have to do it right now.  But, if you’d like, you’re more than welcome to try.  But it’s up to you.”

A gripping sensation clung to his chest and Bucky exhaled slowly.  Deep within himself, he knew there was little to nothing to be anxious about; this was his mother, the woman who birthed and raised him, who watched him grow and shine and make mistakes and go off to war to make something of himself and do his family proud just as his pa had done.  This was the same woman whom he could picture busying herself with reading or her little hobbies while trying not to worry about him while he was overseas; the same woman who would receive a phone call that he’d done missing, and try her best not to panic; the same woman who would fight every day to pray and believe in his safe return; the same woman who would later receive another call saying that he’d been found and returned home, and that he would seek her out when he was stable enough to do so.

The same woman who would be sick with worry, but pushing on each day knowing that her baby would come to her when he was ready.  For Bucky always did that—he did things on his own time, at his own pace, with no care or regard to what anyone else expected of him.  He did things his own way, even if it was different from the norm.  And maybe she was still holding onto that belief.  Maybe she wasn’t. 

But Bucky couldn’t know for sure unless he tried.

So he pressed the icon, and brought the phone to his ear, listening to the dial tone.  It rang once, with no response.  He had half a mind to stop right there and end the call.  But what if she called back—would he bring himself to answer it?

No, he had to do this.  He waited, listening to a second ring.  What if her number changed?  _No, it wouldn’t.  She wouldn’t, not until she knew I was okay.  That’s how she is—she doesn’t change anything until she knows Bec and I are okay and we’re able to reach her.  She’s always been that way_.

A third ring, and the uneasy tightening started to circle his throat, making it hard to breathe just as there was a click, and a tired, older, but firm and warm voice—the voice that sang him to sleep as a child, that encouraged him as he tried new things and accomplished milestones, the voice that scolded him when he was bad, the voice that assured him _everything will be alright, Jamie_ —spoke, “Hello?”

Bucky gasped quietly, choking for a moment as a throng of emotion overwhelmed him all at once.  It had been six years since he’d heard her voice, and every inch of his resolve broke away, leaving him exposed, vulnerable, and as tiny as his boyish self.  “Ma?”


	42. Chapter 42

“Jamie…?”  There was a hitch in her voice as she said a nickname often reserved by his sister, and Bucky swallowed slowly to combat his own emotion.

“Yeah… it’s me, Ma.  It’s me.”  He said, blinking a few times before digging his fingers through his hair.  On the other end of the line, he could hear his mother’s quickened breathing accompanying a string of babbled renditions of his name.

“Oh, my God, James—ohmy—Rebecca!!  George!!  James… it’s— _James_ …”  Bucky’s smile widened, and tears began to sting in the corners of his eyes.

“I know, Ma.  I’ve missed you too, and it’s good to hear your voice.”  He said softly, breathing deeply through his nose as his throat clenched.  He hadn’t realized just what it would do to him to hear her speak.  And he could only imagine what this was like for her after waiting for six years to talk to him again.

“I don’t even know what to say,” she began, and Bucky heard a quiet sniffling as she trailed off.  A hiccup followed, and Bucky felt his heart thump a little harder.

“Ma—don’t cry, hey—it’s okay. I’m okay.”  He tried to reassure her, but he was cut off by a short huff.

“Don’t you tell me not to cry, James Buchanan Barnes.  You will let me cry.  You owe me that,” there was a bubble of laughter beneath the quiet sobs of her words, and Bucky closed his eyes, nodding slowly.  He did owe her that—and so much more.

“I’m sorry, Ma.  I’m so sorry I didn’t call sooner…”

“I was… worried is such an inadequate word, James.  But it was more than that—yes, I was worried, and I was so unsure, but I still…  I had hope, and faith.  And thank God I have your father and sister, and that they have endless patience.  It’s a wonder they didn’t cart me off, I must have been such a bother to them.”  There was a rustling on the other end, the sound of a door closing and another voice steadily growing louder.

“Why’re you shouting, Ma?  Who’s on the phone?”  The edge that Rebecca had to her voice cut into Bucky like a warm knife through butter—the same kind of grappling curiosity that she’d used whenever Bucky was on the phone or chatting with someone from school, ever nosing her way into another’s business.  But that innate curiosity was one she’d carried from childhood, and in that moment, hearing it once again, warmed Bucky’s heart; his little sister hadn’t lost herself in the years he’d been away.

“Here,” his mother said, and Bucky heard a moment of silence before her voice came again, marginally more echo-y this time than before; no doubt she’d put him on speaker.  “Go ahead.”

Bucky smiled, licking his lips.  “Hey, Becca.”

There was an audible gasp, and a rush of fumbling and Winifred’s soft _Hey—be careful!_ before Rebecca’s voice came close and loud to his ear.  “ _Jamie?!_ ”

“It’s me.  No need to shout.”

A rampant rush of _ohmygodohmygodJamieJamieJamie_ flooded his ear, and Bucky had to wonder if his sister was really in her twenties or if she was still, truly, twelve years old and excitedly chanting his name.  Though her voice was loud, and her tone cracking as she went on to ask how he was, where he was, why he’d taken so long to call or reach out to them, there was a rising sensation of calm and happiness that filled Bucky’s being.  Tears that had been once stinging began to burn, and Bucky let them freely roll down his cheeks as he flattened his palm over his eyes, his pinky resting across the bridge of his nose.

He felt foolish for doubting them, for fearing that they would be angry or inconsiderate; he knew they would have questions, and he had been so fearful of telling them, of exposing his horrors to them.  He should have gone to them for the love and support that he knew they would offer.  Of course there would be bumpy moments—no doubt revolving more around his arm than his disappearance—but they were his family.  And Sam had tried so hard to get that into his head, and Bucky had written him off.

To hear Rebecca and Winifred’s voices filling his head, their excited and overwhelmed chatter touching his heart and soul, left Bucky feeling both heavy and weightless all at once.  He wanted to laugh, and cry, and beg their forgiveness for having been absent while he’d been home.  But he had to hope that, when the time came and he explained everything to them, that they would be sympathetic.  His father had been a war vet, and often needed his own time and space to be away, and they respected that well enough.  Surely… surely they could attempt the same for him.

“Becca—Becca, yes, hi… I know… I know you and Ma probably have a lot of questions and everything, but it’ll be a lot easier to explain in person, and not over the phone.”

“When are you coming home?  We can get dinner tonight, and you can come home and tell us everything.  We miss you so much, Jamie,” she said quickly, and Bucky could almost see her hogging the phone, holding it close.  Rebecca wasn’t one to cry or express such vulnerability, but the hitching of her voice led him to believe she was fighting tears.  _What was harder for them—when I was missing, or when they’d been told I was back in the U.S., but hadn’t bothered to contact them?_

“I… I don’t know?”  Panic crept under his skin, and Bucky dug his fingers into his hair again, breathing slowly.  He wanted to see them, needed to see them, but it had taken so long for him to open up to anyone, and there were a thousand thoughts that suddenly slammed into the back of his mind. 

“Rebecca, let your brother breathe for a second,” his mother’s voice was soothing, and soft, and Bucky smiled despite himself, “We want to see you, James, that’s… a damn given.  But clearly there was something stopping you from coming to us sooner, so if you need time—”

“To _hell_ with that, Jamie!  Come on, please?  I owe you so many birthday punches it’s not even funny.”  Bucky laughed, feeling another wave of tears rolling down the sides of his face.

“I don’t know, Becca.  I…  There’s _a lot_ that happened and that you need to know about.  I promise, we will get a chance.  I just..  I need you to understand that this is really huge for me, and there’s…  There’s just a lot going on.”  There was a pause, and Bucky swallowed the lump that had formed in the base of his throat before hearing a quiet, strong voice that eased the tension in the pit of his stomach.

“Take the time you need, son,” his father said softly, quieter than Rebecca’s voice had been, “your sister is just excited, as is your mother.  We’re here when you’re ready.  Just tell us when and where, alright?  We’ll be there with open arms.”

Bucky blinked slowly, staring down at the rug beneath his feet.  His father was not an compassionless man, but war had turned him harder than steel, and Bucky couldn’t remember the last time, prior to going off to basic, that his father had said anything of emotional credibility.  And to hear it now was both surprising and relieving.  Breathing deeply, Bucky’s mouth curled into a smile, and he nodded slowly.

“Thank you, Pa.  I promise, I won’t wait so long again.”

“You’d better not, but we understand that you need time.” 

“Thank you…  I love you guys.”

“We love you, too.  So much.”


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not all sad, ;)

_Are you free?_

_I’m always free for you soldier boy_

_I’m jonesing for some kisses_

_I think I can manage that.  Besides, I have a surprise for you—I think you’ll like it ;)_

_Ooh and it’s not even my birthday yet ;) I’m waiting at home, Cap_

Less than an hour later, there was a gentle knock at the door, followed by the soft click of the knob turning.  Bucky turned his head, one leg tucked under him on the couch, to see Steve slip inside his apartment with a coat over his arm and a light bag slung over his shoulder.  Smiling, Bucky brushed his fingers through his hair, tilting his head back as Steve bent down to trace a kiss along his lower lip.  The slight scruff on Steve’s cheeks and chin brushed Bucky’s face, and he smiled faintly.

When Steve pulled back, Bucky drew his hand up, sliding his fingers along the thickening stubble.  “Gonna go all lumberjack on me?”  Above him, Steve grinned.

“Y’never know, I just might,” he teased, kissing Bucky’s fingers before walking around the couch and dropping down beside him.  He tossed his coat aside, before pulling his bag onto his lap. 

Bucky watched closely as Steve unfolded the top flap, before reaching into the bag to pull out a small black CD case.  Beneath the clear plastic covering was a title-less disk, and Steve held it out to Bucky with a small smirk on his lips.  Pursing his own, Bucky tentatively took it from Steve’s grasp, examining it more closely for a moment before raising his eyes to meet Steve’s baby blues.  “What’s this?”

“Pop it in and find out, soldier boy,” there was a tone, a hint of something subtle, almost devilishly sexy that curled on the end of Steve’s words, and Bucky swallowed slowly.  Unfolding from his position, he stood from the couch, crossing over to the DVD player left virtually untouched in months beneath the television across the room.  A quickening occurred in the rhythm of his heart as he placed the disk onto the slot, easing it into the player before turning on the television.

From behind, he heard Steve rustling around a little, something being set aside, a pair of shoes being kicked off.  All the while, Bucky kept his eyes on the screen, watching carefully as a scene came in from black, the camera focusing on dark drapery and a bed that seemed so damn familiar.  Candles were everywhere, a discarded whip at the foot of the bed.  But where once wasted wax and latex had been present, there was a certain simplicity to the set.  The adornment that had lavished the walls was gone, leaving traces of corruption.

Bucky breathed slowly as the camera focused in on Steve’s face—this was, without a doubt, the same camera work as before, but it was newer, fresher.  Steve was marginally older here, the fine traces of dark stubble only just beginning to grace his jaw and cheeks whereas in _Under the Skin_ he’d been clean-shaved.  The clacking of heels was softer, not quite as dominant as before, and when Natasha came into view, she was dressed only in a black lace lingerie set, her hair hanging in curls.

Bucky watched as Steve’s eyes lifted to meet Natasha’s, lashes thick and dark, and Natasha’s red painted nails scraped gently into his hair.  Her shoulders were drawn back, her body firm as she eased Steve to his feet with but a finger under his chin.  Even with her heels, he still towered over her, but his physical height gave him no control—a vulnerability lingered under his eyes.

“Steve,” Bucky practically whined, only having enough of a moment to breathe and turn his head before Steve came up behind him, pressing a kiss to his temple.  “When d’ja have time to do this?”  It was a stupid and technical question, but he was curious.  Between the time he and Natasha had spent with him, his own work, and everything else in between, it was hard to comprehend when they could’ve done another film.

Steve hummed against the shell of his ear, and Bucky returned his gaze to the screen in time to see Natasha pushing Steve flat on the bed before crawling over him.  Her skin glowed in the candlelight.  “A few days ago, after we talked on the phone.  I’d called Nat up and told her I wanted to do something special for you.  Knew how much you liked _Under the Skin_ and thought we could do something similar.”

The brush of his lips against his ear left Bucky lightly trembling, and Steve’s arm came around his body, hand splayed across his stomach.  On the screen, Natasha was peppering soft, teasing kisses down Steve’s throat and chest, meticulously flicking the tip of her tongue against his nipples.  And Bucky couldn’t discern, at that moment, whether the gasp he heard was from Steve on camera or from himself.

Behind him, Steve kissed along the side of Bucky’s neck, his scruff lightly brushing against the top of his right shoulder.  A part of him wanted to close his eyes and lean into it, but he was so caught in watching Natasha’s hands roam Steve’s body, her lips closing around a bud that he was caught between being relaxed and riveted. 

The camera shifted, rolling along the curve of Natasha’s spine, admiring the string of lace as it disappeared between her cheeks, her thighs bathing in warm light as Steve’s massive hand slid along the smooth expanse, fingers digging in for dear life.  Hands grasped and bodies turned, and Steve rolled them until he was above Natasha, nestled almost perfectly between her thighs. 

Bucky found it difficult to swallow, and when Steve’s roaming fingers slid under his tank to brush against his left nipple he nearly melted.  There was little resistance as Steve guided him back towards the couch.  Bucky had begun to sink down into it, but Steve stopped him with gentle hands and a kiss along the edge of his jaw.  Moaning softly, Bucky curled into Steve, one hand grappling for his hip, the other coming to cup the back of Steve’s neck.

Over Steve’s shoulder, Bucky watched as Steve rubbed the length of himself, exposed and erect, along the thin pattern of lace covering Natasha’s sex.  Their breathing was soft, short, accompanied only by the quietest of whimpers.  Unlike most commonplace pornos, they resigned themselves to hushed whispers and low, almost nonexistent moans.  _Like it’s just meant for them… or… oh—_

Bucky gasped quietly when Steve lightly sank a bite into the hollow of his throat, and he felt his knees go weak as pleasure shot down his spine.  Holding tight, Bucky brought Steve down over him as he fell into the couch.  With ease, Steve straddled Bucky’s legs, kissing and nipping all along his throat and neck as Bucky glued his eyes to the screen, fingers fumbling at Steve’s shirt to get under, feel skin, feel warmth and the rush of a pulse and _oh, God, when was the last time someone bit me there?_

The camera angled shifted, catching Steve and Natasha in profile as they kissed slowly, Steve’s hand sliding down before dipping under the lace at her hips, pulling it away from her skin.  She shifted as Steve pulled the thong free, letting it dangle off of one ankle before dropping to the floor.  In the low lighting, Bucky watched Steve’s palm slide over her hip again, partially disappearing between her legs before Natasha gasped, arching her back deeply.

A soft flick to a new angle, and Bucky could see Steve’s thumb pressed against Natasha’s clit, rubbing slow circles. 

_Ohh_ —Natasha moaned on screen, her hand tangling in the hair at the nape of Steve’s neck, and Bucky mimicked the motion as Steve kissed him deeply, his hands sliding along the waistband of Bucky’s sweats.  Moaning deeply, Bucky lifted his lips, feeling the fabric slide down his ass and along his thighs, before Steve shifted away to pull them down to his knees. 

Hardening, with the tip glistening in precum, Bucky tensed and his cock gave a tiny bounce.  Steve smirked, sinking down to his knees between Bucky’s, leaning in to trace butterfly kisses along his thighs, favoring along the left where scars were visible.  Sighing quietly, Bucky leaned back into the couch, forcing his gaze away from Steve’s mouth to the screen to watch Steve’s cock sliding along the length of Natasha’s cunt.

“Fuck,” Bucky hissed, unsure of where he wanted to look more.  Steve chuckled against his inner thigh, and for a moment it seemed that Natasha was looking past Steve’s shoulder and into the camera— _she looks like she’s—_

“Could do that,” Steve teased, letting a breath ghost over Bucky’s cock, “but I think if I stop now you might kill me,”

“You might be fucking right,” Bucky whined, arching a little.  Jesus Christ, this was mind-numbing—watching Steve tease and fuck Natasha on screen only to look down and see those blue eyes hooded and dark while those lips opened and _oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, God, yes—!_

Bucky’s eyes rolled back, mouth agape as Steve took him down in one go, tongue sliding along the underside of his shaft before sliding back up to tease the head.  Whimpering softly, his fingers curled into the cushions on either side of him, digging so hard he was sure he was ripping holes in the fabric.  His thighs trembled, closing just slightly around Steve’s head and shoulders; when he felt the stubble on Steve’s face rub against his skin, he about screamed.

Gasping, his eyes fluttered open in time to see the camera soaking up the length of Steve’s cock sliding deep into Natasha, large hands firmly holding her hips, her back arched, breasts freed of their lace confines.  There was a gleam that caught his eye and Bucky stared, raptured in the piercings nestled in Natasha’s nipples.

_Un-fucking-believable_.

“Oh, my God,” Bucky whimpered, fighting the urge to rock his hips and slam himself into Steve’s mouth because _holy fucking Jesus, his lips and tongue and the slight bit of teeth are going to be the fucking end of me._

Steve breathed through his nose, pulling off just enough to swallow and grin easily as Bucky before kissing the head.  “You taste good,” he said, slightly hoarse.

“You fucker,” Bucky groaned, breathing unevenly as Natasha arched off the bed, tits bouncing as Steve’s rhythm of fucking deepened.  The piercings caught the light, glittering like stars, and Bucky wondered what it would be like to feel their metal against his teeth and tongue.

Steve must have caught him staring, “They’re just as fun to play with as they look, trust me.”

“I don’t know whether to kiss you or hit you with a pillow,” Bucky moaned, and Steve chuckled, licking his cock slowly from balls to tip.  Bucky hissed, shivering lightly as Steve’s tongue traced over his slit slowly.

“How about you let me take care of you,” Steve mused, wrapping his lips once more around the head of Bucky’s cock.  How could he object to that?

If Bucky had ever been impressed by the visual of Steve sucking cock, it couldn’t compare to _actually_ being sucked by him; his lips weren’t just pretty, they were made for sucking cock.  And the control with which Steve had, the knowledge of just the right amount of tongue and teeth was enough for Bucky to writhe, fingers digging to find purchase in his hair or on his shoulders.  All the while, he watched Steve ravage Natasha in long, deep thrusts, occasionally dipping down to suck on a pierced nipple or bruise her bottom lip in hard kisses.

His toes curled into the carpet beneath his feet, breathing coming hard and fast as Steve began to bob his head, sucking and savoring every inch of Bucky’s cock until Bucky couldn’t refrain from tangling his fingers into enough hair for Steve to know that he was close and coming unraveled at the seams.  He wanted to relax and let it happen but it all felt so good that tightening and letting it build up seemed so good that, when he finally did come, it was with Steve’s name caught up in a shout of pleasure.  He couldn’t even hear Natasha crying in pleasure as Steve pounded her into the mattress.

Bucky knew he came into Steve’s mouth, could still feel the warmth and wet of his lips and tongue as he slid free.  He blinked a few times, fighting the blurred edges of his vision in time to see Steve lick his lips and his Adam’s apple bob slowly.  Moaning, he slumped back into the couch, only half aware of the weight of Steve straddling his lap again before lips pressed against his own.

Sighing into Steve’s mouth, Bucky lazily brought his arm around the blond, easing him closer before feeling his arm bump against Steve’s moving one.  Looking down, he moaned at the sight of Steve’s cock, wet and hard and disappearing repeatedly into Steve’s palm before Bucky pushed his hand away.  There was a moment of silence save for the television, and Bucky looked up at Steve before gently curling his left hand around his cock.

Steve shivered, smiling at the corners of his mouth and eyes before giving Bucky a slow nod.  Leaning in to kiss his collarbone, Bucky gently pumped his metal hand along Steve’s cock, understanding the sensations of something warm and firm against the synthetic fibers, finding it new and strange and so much like his own and not.  It was a muted sensation, touching someone else with this hand than when he touched himself, but Steve’s moans didn’t sound forced or nervous, and when he began to rock his hips into Bucky’s hand, he knew it was okay.

Stroking slowly, Bucky kissed Steve’s throat, only catching glimpses of the film to see Natasha’s legs thrown over Steve’s shoulders, their hands clasped above her head against the tangled sheets, Steve’s thrusting slowed to gentle rocking.  Above him, Steve panted softly into his ear, one arm slung around his shoulders, the other gripping his shoulder. 

Tilting his head, Bucky kissed Steve slowly, deeply, increasing the pace of his hand with just enough twisting and tugging here and there to relish in the involuntary jerking of Steve’s body.  It was with a cry of ecstasy and a “F- _fuck, Bucky!!_ ” that Steve came against Bucky’s stomach and chest, panting hard into Bucky’s mouth.


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's taken me a bit to flesh out and I'm still not totally happy with it, but oh well :p 
> 
> Wanted to give some thanks to my dearest sources of inspiration and constructive criticism: OhCaptainMyCaptain1918 and my dear Emma (JAcklesinSchackles). You both have helped me brainstorm through some rough patches as well as help me see through some technical and character discrepancies, and for that I am extremely thankful. 
> 
> And a special thank you to everyone who has left comments, criticism, kudos, etc. on this work. Without you we wouldn't be forty four chapters in and still rolling with so much more to come. I am so thankful for all of you. You truly make this whole journey so wonderful and fun. <3

“We should go on a trip,” Steve’s voice was quiet beneath the dull roar of his heartbeat, and Bucky lifted his head from Steve’s chest to give him a quizzical look.  With the film long since over and their euphoric high fading away like a distant dream, it was almost strange to hear Steve speak, let alone pose a suggestion that was beyond anything Bucky could have expected.

Still, it gave him pause, and Bucky tilted his head, before shifting to lean into his palm.  “What kind of trip?”  He asked, and Steve smiled, bringing a hand up to comb through Bucky’s hair.

“I dunno, a road trip.  Maybe camping or something.  I know a guy who’s got a cabin on a lake we could go to.”  Steve mused, and Bucky smirked.

“I’ve seen enough films to know that a cabin on a lake can go two ways—romantic as fuck, or we’ll both fucking die.” 

Steve laughed, fingers trailing along the back of Bucky’s neck.  “Well, I think I can imagine which scenario would be preferable for both of us.  But think about it—you and me, cuddled up in front of a fire, just getting a chance to be away.”

It did sound quite nice, Bucky had to admit: the opportunity to be marginally isolated, to talk to Steve a little more intimately than through text and the occasional chance such as this.  It had been a while since they’d been able to get some time at the studio—maybe they could clear some space and dance a little like before.  Bucky found himself smiling deeply as Steve’s fingers massaged the back of his neck slowly.

While Steve massaged his neck, Bucky allowed his thoughts to wander to the potential of a cabin on the lake, or a quiet weekend camping.  He could almost see it, the two of them sharing a tent, or sleeping under the stars.  Maybe they could find a place on the coast and listen to the waves.  But if they were at a cabin on a lake, they could have some kind of a picnic by the water, or swap stories by a fire on a blanket.  _Look at me, dreaming up all this cute domestic romcom shit._

Moaning quietly, Bucky dropped his head a little, brushing a kiss against Steve’s collarbone.  As much as he wanted to live in fantasy, he knew reality was not quite as perfect.  “What about work?”  He asked, raising his gaze just enough to catch Steve’s eye.

“I can get the time off.  We just released a new film onto a few sites that generates a steady revenue for us, so I think I can take a week off or something.  But what about you?  Is there anything holding you back?” 

Bucky smiled, bringing a hand back to palm it over Steve’s against his neck.  “Nah.  I’m running on the equivalent of disabled veteran’s pension right now.  It’s—actually why I go and see Sam each week.  He ultimately will make a decision of whether or not I can go back into the workforce.  Once he thinks I’m mentally capable of it, then I’ll have to see a specialist to determine the full limit of the arm, and things like that.” 

Steve nodded slowly, drawing little circles on the back of Bucky’s neck.  “It’s only a small piece to make up for what they did to you,” he mused quietly, and Bucky felt his gut tighten a little.  Surprisingly, he found himself smiling.

“You think they should do more?”  The light that ignited behind Steve’s eyes sent a chill down his spine.

“Absolutely.  You were captive for years, and then physically and mentally experimented upon further when you were brought home.  They left you there and then made your homecoming hell, and that’s against everything they lead you to believe as a military and a government.  They degraded and disrespected you as a soldier, and as a human being, and it just _fucking eats me_ that they’d do something like that to you.  And all they’ve given you is a pension to pay for your apartment and psychiatric evaluation?  Bullshit.”

That Steve would even be torn up a little meant the world to Bucky, but something within his words and the _hurt_ that echoed behind them just twisted and pulled at Bucky’s heart.  He hesitated a moment, watching Steve’s face before dropping his head back to Steve’s chest, swallowing thickly to hide the sting of tears that were welling in the corners of his eyes.  That Steve would express his anger even a little was enough, but Bucky could see that it was more than that to him.

Steve’s fingers trailed at the nape of Bucky’s neck, and Bucky shook his head gently, shifting his position a little before looking up at Steve again.  The glow of a nearby lamp caught the color of Steve’s eye, making the softness of the blue sparkle lightly, and Bucky shook his head again before leaning in to kiss him deeply.  Moaning quietly, Bucky brought his hand up to cup Steve’s face, relishing in the fluttering of his stomach and the way that Steve’s hand slid up into his hair, grasping gently.

When they parted, Steve was smiling, “What was that for?”

“You are just… unbelievable,” Bucky said softly, brushing his nose against Steve’s.

“Why’s that?”

“Because, you just…  You made it sound like if you could go back in time you would, or like… you wanna give them a piece of your mind and it’s like… I’m doing okay, now.  I’m so much better now having had this opportunity to get to know you and you still wanna right everything that’s ever been wrong.  And that’s just amazing.”

“Of course I wanna right everything, Buck.  I care about you.”

“Aww, Stevie,” Bucky teased, his cheeks warming deeply.  “Wanna fulfill that soldier role and sweep me off my feet and kiss away all my worries?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a big sentimental softie.  Get used to it, jerk,” Steve mused under a quiet laugh, grinning before bringing Bucky down for a soft kiss.  Bucky smiled against Steve’s lips, watching him for a moment before letting his eyes slip shut as Steve traced the line of his lower lip with a grace of his tongue.  Sighing softly, he parted his lips, tasting Steve for a few short moments.

It was during times like this that gave Bucky a chance to disconnect himself from any past or present horrors that flickered around his life.  Being very literally swept into the arms of someone who could kiss his nightmares away was a rare and beautiful thing, and he let himself sink deeper into Steve’s kiss, feeling his weight and position shift ever so slightly.  After readjusting, he found himself pressed into the cushions of his couch with Steve nestled on top of him, hands sliding along his body to cup his face.  His hands slid along Steve’s sides, resting momentarily at his hips before his arms enclosed around Steve’s lower back, the two of them pressed together nearly head to toe.

They kissed for a while, Steve occasionally slipping Bucky a flash of tongue and Bucky reciprocating with a smile and a soft nibble at Steve’s lip, soft sighs and hushed moans passing between them.  Bucky’s legs shifted, opening up enough to let Steve more comfortably slide between them, hips rutting every now and then to ease the tension.  Occasional words of pleasure would pass from Bucky’s lips and into Steve’s mouth, and nothing had felt quite so… _simple_.

_You make it sound so simple._

_It can be, if you let it._

Natasha had said that.

“What’re you thinking about, soldier boy?”  Steve mused quietly, smoothing a strand of hair back from Bucky’s forehead.

“Just that I’m the luckiest guy in the world,” Bucky replied, smiling up at the blond for a long moment.  Steve blinked slowly, impossibly long eyelashes fanning across his cheeks before his baby blues lit up with his smile, and Bucky moaned quietly as Steve kissed him again.  “And,” he cut in, biting his lip lightly, “I’m hoping that my luck takes me a little farther…”

“How so?” 

Bucky swallowed, breathing deeply through his nose, “I know this has all happened kinda quick, but..  I want--rather, I was _hoping_ you'd be willing to come with me.  To meet some people.”  His heart was racing, and Steve raised an eyebrow.

“Who?”

“My family.”


	45. Chapter 45

The following morning, Bucky dressed down in a pair of dark-washed jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and a light coat.  His hair was brushed back out of his face, and he slipped his feet into his boots before strolling out of his apartment.

The hallway was long and quiet, and as he trucked down the stairs to the lobby, he gave the woman at the counter a friendly smile before passing her towards the mail slots.  It’d been some time since he checked it, but as often before he only found a notice of his pension covering his expenses, a reminder to go in for a general check-up with Dr. Banner, and credit card offers.  Shoving these into the pocket of his jacket, he bid the woman a good morning before stepping out onto the street, making his way down to the café for his morning coffee with Natasha.

Shortly after Steve had left the evening before—a long day spent kissing, cuddling, and watching a few classics during a take-out dinner—Bucky had messaged Natasha and asked if they could meet for coffee in the morning.  She had replied almost instantly, with their usual time of a seven-am-sunrise.

He walked with a light spring in his step, his heart warm and a small smile on his face.  The day spent with Steve had been a kind of paradise Bucky hadn’t been aware his heart and soul needed, and the more time they spent together, the more like himself Bucky realized he’d begun to feel.  And it felt so surreal, so unbelievably wonderful that someone so much like him and so different could have come into his life and take the little pieces that held him back and turn them into things that could move him forward. 

Bucky wasn’t aware just how brightly he was smiling until he walked up the steps to the café and slipped inside, where Natasha met his gaze and gave him a quizzical look and a smile of her own.  “Someone’s in a good mood today,” she said, standing from their usual table to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Bucky chuckled quietly, embracing her before sitting down across from her.  “Yeah.  Steve came by yesterday and we spent the afternoon together.”  Natasha eyed him, her brow raising as she smirked behind her cup of tea.

“Did he bring the DVD?”  She asked, and Bucky smirked, nodding once.

“Yeah.  It was… amazing.  The couple of times that you seemed to look into the camera—was that intentional?”  A glimmer caught Natasha’s eye.

“What do you think?”  Bucky smiled, chewing on his lip for a second.

“Nice touch.”

“I thought so.  But something tells me there’s more to it than just watching some porn with your boy.”  Bucky looked away, a smile still lingering on his lips as the usual waiter brought a cup of black coffee for him.  He gave a nod of thanks, bringing his hand up to curl around the warmth of the ceramic.

“We talked.  He thinks we should take a trip, go camping or go to a lake for a weekend.  I…  I think it’s a good idea, honestly.  I’d asked if he could get the time off and he asked if there was anything keeping me from going.  When I mentioned I wasn’t working but getting a disability pension, he went on this tangent about how I deserve more from the government.”  Natasha smiled softly, taking another sip of her tea.

“Sounds like Steve,” she said, setting the cup down on the counter.  Bucky admired her hands, her nails surprisingly unpainted for once, but they were neatly trimmed, and her skin looked soft.  “After his own service, he expects more of the people who literally chew you up and shit you out again.  For you, though, I have no doubt he wants them to move mountains to make it up to you.”

Bucky nodded.  “Yeah, pretty much,” he replied.  “But it’s… it’s sweet, you know.  It’s little things like that that make me feel like what we have is so much more than just the fucking month and a half or whatever we’ve known each other.”

Natasha’s smile was soft, “It’s been about that, I think?  You met in October, like early?  And Thanksgiving is in less than two weeks now.”

Bucky paused, staring hard at his cup of coffee.  Was it really almost Thanksgiving?  Had everything blown by so quickly?  What had happened to Halloween?  What had happened to the time?  Swallowing thickly, Bucky pulled his phone from his pocket, opening the home screen to check that it was in fact November, and it was Sunday.  Blinking once, Bucky stared long and hard at his phone.  Had he really allowed himself to become so disconnected from time?  Or was it more a matter that, in his state of life, certain dates and holidays once cherished were meaningless? 

Natasha’s gentle hand coming to rest over his snapped him from his daze, and her expression was reserved.  “James.  Are you okay?”

He nodded once.  “Yeah, I just…  Realized I’d lost track of time?  Like, I don’t remember Halloween happening.  Or October ending, in general?” 

Natasha smiled faintly, lacing her fingers with his.  “It’s okay.  Losing track of time is normal.  And it’s not like anything special happened on Halloween.  Steve and I were working, and it’s not like there are a fuck ton of kids in this neighborhood anyway.  But if it’ll make you feel better, we can throw a late Halloween party.”

Bucky chuckled, tracing his thumb along Natasha’s fingers as he shook his head.  “It took me more by surprise than anything else.  I mean, I’m not disbelieving of the fact that I lost track of time, but I just didn’t realize it had actually happened.  Honestly, I think I just was so wrapped up in all the good from knowing you and Steve.  ‘Cause before I met you guys, there were periods of time where I’d totally blank on menial tasks, or I’d go days as a time of doing nothing and not remember eating or showering.  So, at least now, it’s different.”

Natasha smiled warmly at him, resting her chin in her opposite hand, “Glad to hear Steve and I are helping.”

“Of course you are.  I’d be fucking lost and probably still putting people who bump into me in a vice grip if not for you two,” Bucky said, a flash of a memory of when he’d grabbed Natasha the first time he truly met her at Gwen’s shop coming to mind. 

“Oh, I doubt that.  Fate, remember?”  Natasha teased, reaching down for her tea.

“No,” Bucky shook his head, giving her hand a gentle squeeze with his own, “fate be damned.  It’s you and Steve or no one.”

The look Natasha gave him then was one that twisted his insides, and sent his heart into a rhythm that erratically trembled beneath the confines of his body and clothing.  A kind of open vulnerability became clear in her eyes; where he often saw Natasha with a sort of reservation, constantly guarding and hiding behind cleverly placed expressions and smiles, this time the mask was missing.  She seemed so young to him, so soft.

He’d seen it so often on the faces of his family and loved ones in his youth—that kind of compassionate connection, where with a single look all the intimacy and care in the world could be expressed.  He’d seen it on his mother, when Rebecca was little and would ask to read her favorite fairy tale with her before bed.  He’d seen it on the face of his high school sweetheart during prom before they kissed.  He could remember, clearly, the way his father had looked while wrapping his mother in an embrace before Bucky had disappeared through the airport gate on his way to war. 

He’d seen it a few times from Steve, too.

And with a blink, and a smile spreading on her full lips, it was gone.

“Steve said that you wanted him to go with you to meet your parents?”  Natasha said after a moment, quietly clearing her throat.  Bucky watched her for a moment, before nodding.

“Yeah.  During my last appointment with Sam I gave them a call.  It was the first time since I left.  I know they want to see me, and I want to see them, too, but…  I’m different.  I’m not the same person, and I want them to meet one of the people who’s made my life better.”  Natasha nodded slowly, the corners of her mouth turning up just a little before she finished her tea.

“I think it’ll be good for you.  I wanna ask though—how do you plan on introducing Steve?”  Bucky frowned.

“What do you mean?”  He asked.  Natasha waited, her lower lip curling into her mouth for a moment before she looked away, sighing.  Had she expected him to know what she meant—?

“When you face your parents, and Steve is standing next to you, are you going to say ‘This is Steve, a friend’, or ‘This is Steve, my boyfriend’.”

 _Oh_.

Bucky hesitated, two answers on the threshold of spilling from his tongue.  On the one hand, he was full and ready to say _my boyfriend_ ; he was intimate with Steve, he cared about Steve.  They’d gone on dates, they were planning a weekend getaway at some point to camp—though, November-almost-December in the Brooklyn area might not be wisest for camping—or go to the lake for fuck’s sake.  Everything in his heart and soul believed that he and Steve were of that status based on everything they’d shared.

But then there was the fact that they’d never had that conversation.  They’d never really talked about it.  Sure, they’d been mutual in expressing care and compassion for one another, but certain things had gone unsaid.  At the time, that was acceptable. But Natasha had a point—if Bucky was ready to bring Steve to his parents, and really, was that even right since it had been over six years since _he_ had last seen his family, was he ready to introduce Steve as _more than_ a friend.

_Of course I am._

_But what if Steve isn’t ready for that?  What if we’re not on the same page?_

Swallowing thickly, Bucky lowered his gaze away from Natasha, mulling over his thoughts.  Though her hand remained, warm and gentle, the weight of her gaze in his peripheral was making him sweat.  And he felt that the longer he sat in silence, the worse it became. 

“I think before you take that step with Steve, you need to talk to him,” Natasha said softly, breaking the silence, “because this is a big deal, James.  I know it’s been a short amount of time, but you have something with Steve that is special, and I know you care about him.  And I know he cares about you—and if I know him as well as I _damn well know I do_ , then he cares about you a lot more than you might realize.”

Bucky looked up at her, feeling his throat tighten, “Natalia…”

Her gaze was stern, and her fingers tightened between his, “I won’t say it for him.  That’s something he’ll share with you.  But don’t go into that meeting without knowing what you mean to each other.  And, maybe, call your family ahead of time.  I’d like to believe they’re good people to have someone like you for a son, but there’s nothing worse than introducing someone who has made your life better only to be shut away.”

“I… thank you.”

“Thank me when you’ve talked to Steve, James.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets real.


	46. Chapter 46

He contemplated calling Steve first, to ask if he could come back so they could talk, to raise the question of “what are we?” so that they might be able to officially progress with their relationship.  Because more than anything, Bucky wanted to be honest, and to be true, and what Natasha had said stuck with him in the worst ways for the rest of the day.  The uncertainty even within himself, and her comment of _he cares about you a lot more than you might realize_ left Bucky feeling a shred of guilt.

What if Steve felt like he cared for Bucky more than Bucky cared for him?  What if Steve was pouring out his affections and felt that Bucky wasn’t reciprocating?  _He’s said over and over to take things at my own pace though, and that it’s okay, but…  I—am a fucking idiot._

Pulling his phone from his pocket, Bucky unlocked the screen, tapping the phone icon before swiping into his contacts.  He told himself that he was going to call Steve, that they were going to talk and get this whole mess straightened out.  And he felt so ridiculous, worrying over what they thought of their relationship; Bucky knew he cared for Steve, knew that Steve meant everything to him.  He knew deep down into his core that he wanted to really make a commitment to Steve—two months or whatever be damned.  And he was sure that Steve felt the same.

But hovering over Steve’s name— _Steve <3—_felt like the most agonizing pause of his entire life.

He wasn’t sure if Steve was busy, or had other things going on.  Hell, other than making films every week-to-other-week, Steve seemed only to spend his time with Bucky, or Natasha, or drawing— _though how long has it been since you last saw him draw?  When was the last time you two were able to get some time dancing, going and getting coffee?  Hell—you haven’t even seen where he lives yet…_

Swallowing thickly, Bucky moved his thumb away from the screen, sighing heavily.  This was stupid, completely and utterly.  But he didn’t want to jump the gun and force a bunch of questions down Steve’s throat when the guy might not have been ready for any of them, or ready for anything more.

_He cares for you a lot more than you might realize_.

_Of course I wanna right everything—I care about you._

_We will always be here for you.  We will love you through every up and down._

_I care for you… ‘til the end of the line._

Clenching his jaw, Bucky swiped the screen a little, going first into the _M’s_ before pressing down on the top contact.  Bringing the phone to his ear, he breathed to steady his erratic heart as the dial tone purred in his ear.  After three rings, a soft voice answered.

“Hey, Jamie.”

“Hey, Ma,” Bucky mumbled softly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What’s going on?  You sound upset?”  Chewing on his lip, Bucky breathed as deeply as he could, trying his damndest to calm down, to ease the worry and uncertainty and the choking sensation that _he was just fooling himself what if what if what if—_

“Will you be honest with me about something?”  He asked carefully, wishing that his heart would stop pounding in his ears. 

“You know I always am, sweetheart,” Winifred’s voice was quiet, compassionate—so motherly and affectionate and reminiscent of his childhood that Bucky could envision himself curling up with his head on her lap and just letting his worries melt away.

“There’s…  I…”  He choked, breathing shakily.  “There’s someone I’ve gotten to know really well, who’s helped me…get back to feeling normal.  I mean, when I.. when I came home, I wasn’t me.  And I wasn’t myself for a long time, and this person is helping me really find myself again.  And I want you to meet them, but I’m…  I don’t know, I..”  God, why was this so hard?  His parents were always loving, always supportive of Bucky regardless of who he was interested in or chose to date, or not to date.  They only ever cared that he was _safe_.

“But… are you afraid we’ll judge them?”  _I’m not sure what I’m afraid of, honestly._

“I suppose.  I just…  I want to see you guys, I want to make up for lost time, but I’m not… fuck, Ma, I’m not the same boy who left.  And this person is part of who I am, now,” Bucky trailed off, staring blankly down at the carpet beneath his feet.  Tears were stinging the corners of his eyes.

“Jamie,” her voice was quiet, the kind of quiet that meant she was mulling over what he was saying, being as compassionate and sympathetic as she could be.  _How hard is this on her?  She hasn’t even seen me, yet, and I’m dumping this on her_.  “You know I love you.  You know I will always love you, no matter what.  Your father and sister and I are well aware that you aren’t going to be the same, and maybe in ways we can’t imagine.  But that’s why we’re family—we’ll get through it together.  We’ll always be here to support you.  And if this person you want to bring is a woman, or a man, or even someone who doesn’t fit that mold or present themselves in conventional ways—it _doesn’t matter_ , James.  What matters most to me is that _you_ are happy, and that _you_ are finding yourself in a good light with good people.”

Bucky listened, tears freely rolling down his face as he sank his forehead into his palm, smiling faintly despite the rush of emotions rolling through his body.  If any doubt had existed within him before, it had vanished in that instant.  And, truthfully, there was an inkling of embarrassment that he’d been doubting his mother at all—she’d always told him how she felt about what he did and what he got into to, and the people he associated with.  She’d always been unabashedly honest.

But she’d never once told him that there were limits to who he could love.

Breathing slowly, he licked away the tears that had rolled over his lips, swallowing, “Thank you, Ma.  That… is such a goddamn relief, you have no idea.”

“I’m sure I can imagine,” there was a smile in her voice and Bucky smiled as well, shaking his head slowly.  He looked down at himself, seeing the metal of his arm and hand.  Once, he might have felt anxious at the prospect of revealing the arm once more, awaiting that wire-thin decision of acceptance versus disgust.  But with his mother’s words and comfort rolling through his mind and body, he no longer felt afraid.

“There’s… so much that’s changed, Ma,” he said softly, flexing the fingers slowly.

“Change happens all the time.  Sometimes slowly, sometimes drastically.  And, maybe, whatever it is that’s different now will take time getting used to—but do not mistake for a moment that it’ll never happen.” 

“You’re the best,” he said simply, and Winifred laughed.

“I don’t know about that, but I do my best,” Bucky smiled, and Winifred let out a quiet breath before continuing, “What’s their name?”

“Steve,” Bucky sighed, his heart relieved, “his name is Steve.”

“It’s a good name, no doubt for a good man.”

“A very good man, Ma.”

“Are you two…?”

“I think so.  We’re… gonna talk.  When I introduce you, you’ll know for sure.” 

There was a smile in her voice, “I can’t wait to meet him, Jamie.  If you’re happy, he’s welcome, no matter what.”


	47. Chapter 47

Bucky took a few days to collect himself, as well as to wait for an opening in Steve’s schedule—while not strictly filming, there were a few shoots to promote upcoming films, the toggling of ideas, an introduction to new crew members to their business.  _It’s all technical shit right now_ , Steve had said late Tuesday night after Bucky had come back from errands of his own (the apology to Gwen for having hoarded _Under The Skin_ for over a month still seeming entirely insufficient).  _I’ve opted to have the next week and a half or so off, and I’ll go back on the first to start working on the next film_.

He’d found that the best way to consider his options, and plan what he wanted to say, he needed to busy himself physically, lest he wanted to worry himself into an episode.  After having gone as long as he had without one, barring his nightmare from over a week ago, Bucky found himself wanting to continue the streak.  As it was, he had an appointment with Sam coming up to evaluate whether or not he’d be suitable to start working again.  A part of him was hoping to be able to talk to Natasha about working in her studio, or finding a local garage to get his hands into again.  He had the knowledge and the degree, might as well put it to use.

But these were things for the future, and Bucky’s focus was a damn near constant mantra of _what are we, Steve, are we on the same page, do we want the same thing for ourselves, I know it hasn’t even quite been two months yet but I’m ridiculously crazy about you and I just want to make sure we’re in this together._   So he cleaned his apartment, and he reorganized the little things like shelves and the way his appliances—so rarely used, now that he thought about it—were place; he straightened up his bedroom, putting the mattress and the bedding back on the frame and organizing the closet and dresser. 

He went through and set aside clothes that were undesired or ill-fitting, making a mental note to go shopping at some point because, to be honest, two pairs of decent-fitting jeans, a cacophony of long-sleeved shirts and sweatshirts, and his uniforms were not entirely ideal for moving forward into a better state of living.  And, while some people made-do with far less, his circumstances were changing; if he had any desire to make good impressions and to get back to being a truly functional part of society, he’d need a better wardrobe.

Dragging his hand over his uniforms, both combat and dress, Bucky felt an old ache creeping into the hollow of his throat.  Staring, he could feel the memories of the cold, the fire in the sky and the throbbing of his body from being ravaged by the explosion.  But they’d disposed of that uniform, of the remains anyway; this one was from his earlier days, during basic and the first few years he was away.  He could still remember the day he left for basic, in two-thousand-four.  His mother had cried, and his father hugged him so tightly he thought he would break.

Chewing his lip, Bucky diverted his attention to the dress uniform, the dark blue and the gold buttons down the front.  A crisp white shirt and a tie hung nearby, and Bucky turned the coat to admire the front.  Not heavily decorated, but they’d been decent enough to keep what honors and badges he had earned, especially the one associated to his sector, prior to being shipped overseas.  There was a lingering layer of dust from being kept within his closet untouched for so long, and a quiet tickling in his subconscious said _Ma would like to see this_.

Swallowing thickly, Bucky dusted the shoulders, but otherwise left the garment alone, before moving on.

Turning on his heel, Bucky looked over to the recently organized dresser, finding his tags laying on top of the surface.  Reaching out, he scooped them into his hand, before looking down at the identification.  Barnes.  James, B.  Social, blood type, religious affiliation.  It seemed so sterile, stripping down all that made him, well, _him_.  Pocketing the tags and the chain, he turned away from the dresser just as his pocket vibrated quietly. 

He wasn’t at all surprised to see Steve’s name on the front of the screen, and with a smile he accepted the call.  “Hey,” he said softly, making his way out of his room and down the hall to the living room.

“Hey, soldier boy,” Steve mumbled quietly, the lilt in his voice pleasant.  “I’m heading upstairs now, just wanted to give you a heads up.”

“Appreciate it,” Bucky mused, going into the kitchen to retrieve a mug from his cupboard, coffee freshly brewed in a pot nearby.  “Though you know you and Nat are always welcome to walk in.”

“Wouldn’t want to walk in when you’re jacking it though,” Steve chuckled, and Bucky rolled his eyes.

“I don’t normally jerk in my living room, punk.  At any rate, given your career, I don’t think either of you’d be completely put off,” Bucky teased, hearing the front door click and swing open.  Steve’s voice called from the other room as the line disconnected.

“You do have a point,” the door closed again, and Bucky heard footsteps as Steve passed through the entry and into the small kitchen, leaning against the counter for a moment, “Besides, if memory serves me correctly, interruptions certainly don’t stop you.”

Bucky’s cheeks warmed, and he set the mug down before crossing to Steve, “Ass,” he mumbled, leaning in to kiss him gently.

Steve sighed into his mouth, a hand coming up to gingerly cup Bucky’s lower cheek and along his jaw.  For a moment, Bucky forgot about the weight of the tags in his pocket, the cleaning and obsessive rearranging he’d done, the questions that were lingering in the back of his mind; instead he savored the slight mint taste on Steve’s tongue, the softness of his lips, the warmth of his hand against the stubble along Bucky’s cheek.

For a moment, it was so fucking simple.

But he pulled away, and smiled slightly instead, motioning to the mug beside him, “Coffee?”

Steve smiled, licking his lips as he blinked—Bucky watched his lashes kiss his cheeks, admiring the darkness in his roots, proving that the blond was fading and the rich brown was returning.  “Sounds wonderful,” he agreed, smiling brightly from eyes to lips, and Bucky dropped a hand casually to his pocket to ground himself.

“Take this one, then.  Cream’s in the fridge, sugar’s in that jar there,” he said, turning away as his heart wedged itself into his throat.  He busied his mind and hands with another cup and another pour from the pot as Steve retrieved the cream.  Bucky fished out a spoon from a nearby drawer and handed it to Steve, before drinking slowly from his mug.  It was hot, and probably a poor drink of choice for the way his insides were already twisting.

Steve made up his coffee as Bucky walked over and sat at the small table in the corner of the combined dining and kitchen space.  Steve glanced over at him, raising an eyebrow, before setting the spoon aside.  He joined Bucky at the table, and sat across from him.  “I know you said you wanted to talk, Buck, but you look real tense.  What’s going on?”

Taking another long, slow drink from his mug, Bucky mulled over the best way to answer this question; given that there were a thousand variations of _what are we_ running through his mind, it proved to be a difficult process.  Eliminating any variables and possible phrases that could be construed as argumentative or obsessively dependent was difficult enough as it was, and when Bucky met Steve’s eyes over the top of his mug, he drank again.

But Steve was patient, endlessly so, and his smile did nothing to help Bucky’s growing tension.  And he wasn’t aware he was even shaking until Steve reached across and placed a hand over the back of his metal wrist, quieting the whispering rattle that his fingers had been making.  Sighing, Bucky set the mug down, swallowing slowly.

“Remember when I said I wanted you to meet my family?”  Bucky asked, and Steve nodded.

“Of course.  I would still like to, if you’re comfortable with that.”  Steve assured.

“I am.  I just… I talked with Nat about it, and… she brought something up that I realize we haven’t really talked about.  And I guess, I mean, we really haven’t taken the opportunity to talk about it.  You’re busy, and I’m, well, I’m here, and sometimes when we’re together there’s really not a lot of talking happening _period_.  Which I don’t mind, it’s wonderful, and I really enjoy when we spend time together—” Steve gripped along the fibers of Bucky’s synthetic palm, and he stopped when the pressure registered.

“Bucky,” Steve said, smiling, “you don’t need to explain anything.  Just say what you need to.”

Bucky froze, feeling everything that he was afraid to say and afraid to dump on Steve come piling up against the back of his throat.  A part of him worried that he would open his mouth and physically vomit, but he looked down at Steve’s hand, watching his fingers trace circles against the plates and the lines and he let out a quiet, shaking breath.  When he returned his gaze to Steve’s eyes, his voice was barely above a whisper.  “What are we?”

Steve waited, blinking once, before tilting his head slightly, leaning closer.  “What do you mean?”  His voice was just as soft, just as intimate.  By not raising it, Bucky felt like everything that would be said was in confidence, that it was just theirs; by not raising it, Steve had given Bucky his opportunity to be vulnerable, without being pushed.

“Us.  Is there… an us?  Are we two separate things or is this… a single, mutual thing?  ‘Cause I, I know we haven’t known each other long, and I know the whole basis of what we have’s founded on the fact that I watched your pornos and it’s the strangest and, probably, most rushed thing ever but I’m…”  Bucky trailed off, his heart pounding so heavily he forgot to breathe.  Steve gently squeezed his wrist again, subtly urging him on.  “I’m so fucking crazy about you it’s ridiculous.  And Nat suggested that before we take this to the whole meet-the-family stage that we talk.  And I realized she was right.  Because I don’t want to screw up and say we’re something if we’re not, but I don’t wanna say we’re _not_ if we _are_.  So I wanna know—what do _you_ want?  Because this is fast and this is sometimes scary but it’s the _one_ thing that’s gotten me out of being a fucking frozen vegetable, _this_ —whatever this is—is _everything_ to me, and I need to know exactly _what_ it is before something gets fucked up.”

There was a long silence, too long, almost, that didn’t ease the pulse vibrating under Bucky’s skin.  And with each tick, each second, each moment that Steve fucking stared him down and didn’t say a word was another inch closer to Bucky pulling away and apologizing for being foolish.  He swallowed until his throat was dry, but he couldn’t bring himself to grab his coffee, because that would have only made him warmer, only that much more on edge than he already was.  And he dared not pull away just yet, not when everything hung like a poison in the air.

Because if he let go, now, then he was afraid that would be the end of it.  And he wasn’t ready for that.

Steve looked down at their hands, inhaling slowly, and Bucky felt like he was ready to burst at the fucking seams.  “You’re right,” Steve began.  Bucky nearly screamed.  “It is fast.  It is scary.  There’s a lot we don’t know about each other that probably needs to be said.  And I have no doubt that, one day, they will be said.  It doesn’t have to be today.  It doesn’t have to be tomorrow, or in a week.  It’s a process that we’ll get through, no matter how it happens.  And it will happen, because I want this just as much as you do, Buck.  There are people I’ve known for years that don’t know me as intimately as you do, and there are things that I want to share with you that will never see the light of day in other contexts or relationships.  And we’ll get there—together.”

Bucky stared, hard, at Steve, watching each movement of his eyes, watching the way his mouth moved, how he shifted in his seat, how quietly he spoke, how often the pressure deepened with his hand on Bucky’s.  He became hyper-aware of his own heartbeat and each little thing he felt at Steve’s touch and words and every inch of him felt like he was on fire.  But it was a _good_ fire, consuming and making it hard to breathe in all the best ways because fucking finally, it was there, it hung between them spoken and made-known, no longer a secret, or something undisclosed. 

Bucky opened his mouth, finding that anxiety had left him dry and cracked, but he spoke anyway, “I think I might cry.”

Steve laughed, turning his palm over and taking Bucky’s hand, lacing their fingers.  “It’s alright, Bucky.  But have you really been worried about this?  About how I felt, or what I wanted?”

Sheepishly, Bucky nodded.  Steve shook his head, his smile and the light in his blue eyes warm.  “Don’t be.  I want this, I want you—what we have may not fit the typical romantic ideal, but it’s _ours_.”

Breathing easily for the first time since getting off the phone with his mother three days prior, Bucky brought Steve’s hand to his lips, kissing the skin lightly.  Steve tilted his palm, stroking Bucky’s scruffy jawline with his thumb before pulling away.  “I want to give you something.”  He said simply, and Bucky raised an eyebrow.

He watched as Steve reached into the pocket of the cardigan he was wearing, pulling something hanging from a chain free before setting it down on the table in front of him.  His breath caught in the back of his throat as Bucky looked down at Steve’s tags, so alike his own and yet so well-kept and sharp.  He traced a finger over the details, seeing Steve’s name and information printed crisply into the metal.

“It’s not much, but…  I want you to have it.  And remember that we have differences and similarities, but we’ll get through it all together.”

Bucky smiled warmly, looking at Steve as he dug into his own pocket, retrieving his tags, before pressing them into Steve’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which if this chapter had a title it would be "Bucky obsessively cleans and memorizes the finest details of Steve's physical being"
> 
> I realized I made a small error in the timeline, so chapter 45 has been edited as far as when Steve and Bucky met (early October, instead of late September). 
> 
> Also, thank you for all the wonderful comments. Unfortunately I won't be able to update for a few days, most likely. I have a pretty busy schedule ahead of me starting tomorrow between work, school, and sports. But the ball is rolling and this is where it starts to get good. <3
> 
> Additionally, here's a great big fat shout-out and thank you to OhCaptainMyCaptain1918, with whom I skyped for over four hours last night, and undoubtedly had the best conversation of 2015 thus far. <3 Thank you for your support, suggestions, and encouragement. And other shared things that shall be our little secret ;D


	48. Chapter 48

 Saturday rolled around, and with Steve’s tags resting beneath his sweater and the tingle of a fresh shave on the edges of his jaw, Bucky made his way down to the street outside of his apartment, turning in the direction of the café he’d become so familiar with.  With the mid-afternoon sun peeking behind a few thick clouds, and a cool breeze blowing against the back of his neck, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat, boots quietly scuffing against the sidewalk concrete as he walked.  Each step matched the beating of his heart, and while a growing tension pulled at his throat, he breathed as evenly as possible, and kept his head high.

He and Steve had decided that it would be best for Bucky to see his family first, on his own time, without introducing anyone additional just yet.  And, as much as Bucky wanted for Steve to be a part of this, he had to see the logic in it—he hadn’t really seen his family since he’d left for Russia in early two-thousand-eight.

It was hard to imagine that it was now breaching into seven years since he’d last seen his family.  There was a part of him that twisted in guilt at not having reached out sooner, but he had to allow himself some leeway.  He wasn’t a stable individual when he came to the States, and had been in even worse condition when allowed back into his hometown and away from white walls and IVs.  To inflict that kind of personality onto his family would have been unfair, and while it was possible they would have a hard time coming to an understanding about that immediately, Bucky had to have faith in them.

Steve had reassured him with a kiss that everything was going to go well, and that soon they could all get together and work towards the next phase of their lives.  But it was important, Steve had pressed, that Bucky get his chance to reconnect fully with his family first.  Bucky had only protested a little before Steve’s lips silenced his arguments.

That had felt like so long ago, and with each step towards the café where Bucky was to meet his parents and sister, it felt further and further, like a memory or a dream of a conversation that hadn’t actually occurred.  And if not for the tags resting comfortably just right of his heart, he might have felt shaken, unsure.  There was no guarantee he wouldn’t have opted to turn around instead.

Breathing slowly, Bucky raised his gaze to see the café coming into view, and he curled his hands tighter in the pockets of his coat.  A breath caught in the back of his throat and he fumbled at the left pocket, hastily flexing and relaxing his fingers before digging his glove from the right.  Withdrawing his hand, he slipped the black padded leather glove over the metal plates and digits, his shoulders sagging slightly.

He didn’t want to hide, but he didn’t want to scare them, either.  He’d told his mom that a lot had changed, that things weren’t the same anymore.  She’d promised him that with time and patience they could get through it together, and he believed her.  But this was going to be an emotional experience as it was, and he wasn’t quite sure that he was ready to expose the truth of his horrors in such a public place. 

_If it comes up, I’ll show them—or, at least, I’ll tell them.  But I won’t show them in public.  It’ll be private.  It has to be.  I can’t…  I don’t wanna be known as the freak of Brookyln or anything…  Fuck._

Bucky stopped, breathing deeply to will away the clenching in his throat, the darkened edges as the corners of his vision slowly fading away.  It’d been weeks since he’d felt the throngs of his anxiety creeping up on him while he was awake.  It was an unnerving sensation, certainly, but he licked his lips and sighed.  He would be okay.  He was okay.  _I’m good.  I can do this_.

Climbing the steps of the small porch, Bucky slipped into the café, the bell quietly singing its sweet tune of arrival.  With a quick glance, he spotted only the regulars—the waiter who’d served him and Steve countless times, the elderly couple with matching red scarves and their small kettle and raspberry scones, a robust woman with full cheeks and black hair and a new three piece that fit her body as well as her professional attitude.  He sighed quietly, smiling briefly at the waiter with the mop of curls and a knowing nod before taking his usual place at the table by the window.

A cup of coffee appeared on his table, and Bucky gave a grateful smile even though he couldn’t bring himself to touch it.  In his pockets, his hands were still trembling, and his leg began to bounce under the lip of the table.  He stared out of the window, watching leaves rustle along the ground and people wander up and down the streets for light shopping and early morning exercise. 

Breathing slowly, his fingers eventually began to relax, and his leg bobbed less and less as he leaned back into his chair a little.  The weight of Steve’s tags felt comforting and warm, like a strong sense of peace against his heart.  He heard the bell ring from the front of the shop, and he brought a hand up to grip his coffee cup.  He sipped slowly, breathing out as he swallowed.

“James?”  He’d talked to her days ago, but hearing her voice in the open air made his heart ache something fierce. 

Turning his head, Bucky looked over his shoulder to see his mother and father and younger sister coming across the café lounge.  Biting hard on the inside of his cheek, he stood from his chair as his mother rushed forward, and he opened his arms in time for her to crash against his chest, her head tucked under his chin.  Rebecca’s brow furrowed and she came to their mother’s side, sneaking under Bucky’s arm as she pressed her nose into his shoulder.  Tears stung his eyes, he dipped his head against his mother’s hair, breathing out in relief, “Ma.”

Having his mother and sister in his arms was more than he could have ever hoped for.  Breathing in the smell of his mother’s favorite shampoo, holding his little sister close and rubbing her back to soothe the hiccupping sobs, there were pieces of him that felt less strained, less sharp and grated and broken.  Clenching his jaw, Bucky pressed himself closer to his mother and sister, feeling the weight of additional arms coming around him, and he inhaled his father’s cologne.

He wanted to choke, he couldn’t breathe; his heart was pounding erratically but it wasn’t accompanied with a creepy-crawling sensation along his skin that set him into a spiral of cold chills and fear.  Though his throat clenched and tears spilled from the corners of his eyes, everything inside of him felt warm.  As Bucky gripped tighter to his family, burying his face deep into his mother’s greying hair, he felt the gasp leaves his lips, his body trembling with a need to cry out.

Even if it meant making a scene, he couldn’t bring himself to care.  Years spent sleepless, tormented, drugged, burned and beaten and bruised became meaningless in the arms of his family.  He could feel Rebecca’s fist thumping weakly against his side as she babbled about him being stupid for having left.  His mother was silent, her hands shaking against the backs of his shoulders while pained, stifled gasps were coming from his father.  Bucky lifted his own tear-streaked face to see his father’s eyes, red and puffy, cheeks wet.

How they managed to collect themselves and sit was beyond Bucky, but he was aware of standing, arms tangled with his mother and sister, and then sitting back down in front of his cup of cooled coffee; his mother had moved a chair from the opposite side of the table to his immediate left while Rebecca sat at his right.  His father took the remaining chair across the table. 

His mother shifted, and Bucky thought she made to speak when Rebecca’s fist slammed into Bucky’s right shoulder.  Gasping, he turned to look at her, and beneath the tears in her eyes lay the quiet, frothing rage no doubt directed at his disappearance and lack of contact, “Six years, you big oaf.  What happened?”

Bucky stared, swallowing slowly.  His stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot, but he swallowed the matching lump in his throat.  “Remember when I told you I was going in for a special operation?  Early in oh-eight?”

“You said it was going to be in Russia—we remember,” Winifred said carefully, bringing her hand over his left, fingers massaging the leather slowly.  Bucky glanced at his father, watching the focused stare George had on his left hand.

“My group and I had gone in at night, hoping for a covert crossing.  We’d spent so much time training and researching to get in even in the midst of the Chechen War, we thought we had it down to a science.  Every move, every soldier accounted for.  I still don’t know if we crossed over a trap deliberately laid for us or if we were in the wrong part of the country at the wrong time.  My convoy was destroyed.  I was taken captive.”

The silence that fell across the table made Bucky nervous, but he swallowed again.  With shaking words, he told them that he had been a prisoner of war in Russia until two-thousand-eleven where he’d been found and taken to a veteran facility outside of London.  There, he’d been cared for, given health and stability and strength before being sent on a plane back to the States.  He could see the confusion and concern in his family’s eyes, knowing that it did not match with what they’d been told.

Breathing, Bucky laced his fingers with his mother’s, delving deeper into the painful truth that they’d been denied. 

He told them about being released, seeing Sam once or twice a week for little more than a year before meeting Steve, Natasha and Gwen.  He didn’t mention their professions or what they did, simply that he’d met them and become incredibly close with them, Steve and Natasha in particular.  Fresh tears were in Winifred and Rebecca’s eyes, but not in George’s; when Bucky looked at his father, he could see a kind of reservation on the veteran’s face.  He wouldn’t cry.  Not when he was full of rage.

“You were home…”  Winifred trailed off, “for two years before they told us?”

Bucky swallowed, and nodded.  “In fairness, I wasn’t exactly fit to be seen.”

“I don’t care,” she continued, turning to face him fully.  “ _You were home_.  And they continued to prey on you and they didn’t tell us—no.. they _lied_ to us.  After you and your father gave everything to their service, _they lied to us_.”

Bucky knew there was nothing he could say to make up for or justify what had happened.  In truth, he didn’t want to, anyway.

“What was so important that they kept you for so long?  You said your convoy was attacked, and you were experimented on?  With what?”  George’s voice was cold, hard, but not without compassionate. 

“Not here,” Bucky rasped, lightly clenching his left fist around his mother’s fingers.  Winifred turned her attention to his hand, frowning softly. 

“Jamie,” Rebecca said softly, “it’s okay—”

“No, it’s not,” Bucky said simply, biting the inside of his lip to keep the edge from creeping into his tone.  “It’s not.  I don’t want to explain it here, it’s…  It’s not okay.”

“Where do you need to go?  Where’s the safest place to be?”  George asked, softening his voice a little.  Bucky licked his lips and gave him a grateful look.

“Home.  My apartment.  It’s just down the road.”

His family had driven to the café, but Bucky told them he preferred to walk.  It was easier to clear his head that way, and prepare himself for what he was about to show them.  Though he’d felt he tension in the café, he knew he wasn’t afraid of showing the arm to his family.  He’d been able to do it with Sam, Steve and Natasha.  It was just a matter of the space he’d been in—he’d always been in a private sort of world, just him and the person he was exposing this part of himself with.  The café was too open, too many people to see.  He wasn’t ashamed.  But he kind of was, too.

His sister held his hand as they walked, and their parents followed in the car, no doubt grateful for the slow speed limit on such narrow streets.  They parked across from his building, and the four of them made their way up to his apartment.  Once inside, Bucky shed his coat, his heart beating beneath Steve’s dog tags.

With his coat gone, the scars along his neck were exposed, and he could feel eyes on them.  Breathing deeply, Bucky asked that they sit, while he moved the coffee table away to pull the chair in the corner closer.  The tension in the room was palpable, a beating thing that Bucky imagined choking on once upon a time.  But he felt very nearly at ease.

Sitting on the edge of the chair, facing his family, he slid his right hand over his left, gripping the fingertips of the glove before pulling slowly.  The lamp-light caught the metal, a warm glow gleaning off of the surface as he exposed the hand.  Someone gasped, but he wasn’t paying attention to who. 

“Jamie…”  Rebecca breathed, her shoulders sagging.  Bucky looked up at her, before reaching back behind his neck to pull at the sweater.  He tugged it over his head, feeling air kissing the scar tissue that raced and webbed up his side, across his back and up the length of his spine.  The near-silent whir of the plates shifting proved to be the only sound as he let the sweater fall, and three pairs of eyes locked on what had become of James Buchanan Barnes.

“It’s not okay,” he repeated, deadpan and still for a moment.  “But _I’m okay_.  _I’m_ getting better.  Little by little.  Even if this… doesn’t change.  It’s part of me.  It won’t go away.  But that’s not a bad thing, anymore.”  He cleared his throat, looking down at his arm and his hand, flexing the fingers slowly.  He caught sight of Steve’s tags swinging from his neck, and he sighed.  He was okay.

Silence clung to his family like a plague, and Bucky’s fingers began to twitch, his shoulders tightening the longer they stared.  Maybe this wasn’t… no.  It was a good idea.  He had to be honest.  He’d kept them so long in the dark—the government they were meant to trust had kept them in the dark.  This didn’t change who he was, only what he looked like, what he was capable of.  It had taken so long but Sam had made a point—he had to be thankful for the fact that he even had a damn-perfect functioning arm.  Many men didn’t have that.  It wasn’t conventional.  It wasn’t right.  It sure was fuck wasn’t fair.  But he had it.  And he was alive.

Even if his family had a hard time coming to terms with it, he still had Sam, and Steve, and Natasha.  He would always have them.  They would always—always be with him _‘til the end of the line_.

His skin had just started to crawl when Rebecca—fucking Rebecca—spoke, “Bet you kick ass at arm wrestling.”

_Steve had said that.  You’d get along so great_.

Bucky laughed quietly, shaking his head as tears threatened his eyes once more.  “I haven’t tried.” He admitted.

There was a shift, and Bucky looked up to see his father standing slowly.  Bucky frowned, standing as well when his father motioned him to.  And he stood still, breathless as George’s hand gripped the metal, feeling the plates and the lines and looking deeply at Bucky’s scars, lacing and crossing and disappearing beneath the waist of his jeans to continue down his left leg.  For a long while he just stood there, giving Bucky a long once-over.

“Pa?”  Bucky mused, catching his father’s eye, before being wrapped in a bear-hug he hadn’t felt since he left so many years ago.


	49. Chapter 49

“How did it go?”  Steve asked, trailing his fingers along the scars against Bucky’s ribs beneath his shirt.  Bucky breathed deeply, nuzzling closer to Steve’s side.

“Good.  Ma cried a lot.  So did Bec.  My pa cried a bit too, but he’s a stoic kinda guy so he kept to himself.  I…  I showed them my arm, and my pa crushed me in this big ol’ hug that felt like it was squeezing the air and life out of me.  Overall, it was good, y’know?  I needed it.  I think they did, too.”  Bucky explained, shivering a little when Steve’s fingers tickled along the top half of his ribs.

“I’m glad you had that opportunity, Buck.  I can imagine how much it meant to all of you,” Steve mused, leaning over to press a kiss to Bucky’s forehead.  Smiling, Bucky shifted and pressed closer, tucking his head under Steve’s chin.  They’d taken up residence on Bucky’s forgotten bed, the darkness of the room comforting.  Just hours before, Bucky had been out in his living room with his family; now he was here, and it just felt perfect.

“I still wish you had been here to meet them.  They would love you,” Bucky breathed.  Steve smiled against his forehead, and Bucky slipped his arm over Steve’s hip.

“We agreed it’d be best if you met with them first.  It sounds like it’d been a pretty overwhelming thing to begin with; could you really imagine me being mixed in with all that?  They’d be trying to focus on you and get to know me, and something would’ve been left out or excluded or brushed over.”

Bucky pouted, lifting his gaze to Steve’s.  “Why’d you have to be all logical about this?” Steve laughed, kissing Bucky’s hairline gently.  “I’m serious.  You have to be all smart and shit and I just want you to meet my family.”

“I’ll meet your family, Buck, don’t think I won’t.  Just this time wasn’t the _right_ time.”  Steve eased, sliding his hand along Bucky’s side and along his back, before tilting his head.  Bucky chuckled, meeting Steve’s lips with his own for a brief moment.

Steve had come over shortly after Bucky’s family had left with a large pizza and a six-pack in tow.  While seeing his family had been a rejuvenating and needed experience, the tears and emotions exhausted Bucky, and while he hated sending his family away, he’d explained that he was still in a stage of recovery and needed time to himself.  It was hard, but his parents and sister had understood, even if it meant they spent ten minutes hugging him and saying goodbye. 

Moaning quietly, Bucky parted his lips as Steve graced his mouth with a flick of his tongue, fingers digging into the porn star’s hips.  Little things like this meant the world to Bucky, often in ways he couldn’t describe.  So quickly he’d become dependent on Steve’s kisses, the kindness in his words, the way he looked at Bucky in the middle of an intimate moment, that times spent _without_ Steve felt like a nightmare.  And this moment was no exception; deepening the kiss, Bucky found himself nearly clawing at Steve’s hip, urging for more.

Biting gently at Steve’s lower lip, Bucky pulled Steve closer, sliding his knee between Steve’s thighs as Steve’s hands raked up his back to his hair.  Shivering, Bucky gasped quietly as Steve peppered kisses along his jaw and throat.  His skin warmed beneath Steve’s lips and teeth, his heart skipping beats as Steve’s fingers laced into his hair, pulling gently.

“Steve,” Bucky breathed, shifting to let his knees fall open, encouraging Steve to fill the space between them.  The blond smirked into Bucky’s skin, the two of them shivering as Steve pressed chest and hip to Bucky, the clink of tags brushing between their chests.  “Fuck, Steve, I want—”

Steve hummed, kissing along Bucky’s neck again.  Bucky moved to bring his hands between them, fumbling at the belt looped into Steve’s jeans.  Steve’s fingers hooked into the hem of Bucky’s tee, pulling it up until it bunched under his arms, and Bucky was forced to abandon his project of discarding the belt in order to be rid of his shirt.  Steve kissed his chest and throat, and Bucky shrugged out of the cotton before tossing it aside.

“Hang on,” Steve said, fumbling in the dark, “I wanna see you…” he trailed off, before the light on Bucky’s side table flicked on.  Blinking, Bucky peered around the room before finding Steve’s eyes.

“You’re lucky it’s a soft-glow kinda lamp, otherwise I’d be real pissed at you for blinding me,” he grumbled.  Steve’s mouth curled at the corner, and he bent down to kiss Bucky again.

“You’d forgive me right quick, and you know it,” he assured, kissing Bucky’s lower lip.  Moaning, Bucky kissed him back, before Steve pulled away. 

“Why do you keep doing that?  Fuckin’ come here, Cap.”  Bucky tried reaching up to pull at the tags around Steve’s neck.  But Steve persisted in being just beyond Bucky’s reach, even going so far as to take Bucky’s hands and trap them against his stomach.

“Let me look at you,” Steve pressed, his smile unwavering and so sweet that it made Bucky ache. 

“You look at me all the time, Stevie,” Bucky moaned, fingers ticking at Steve’s shirt, sliding under the hem to feel his skin.  Steve let out a quiet giggle, shoulders hunching forward as he shifted under Bucky’s touch.  “What makes now so different?”

Steve raised his gaze to Bucky’s, the weight beneath his baby blues so heavy Bucky felt as though he were suddenly small, trapped beneath a magnifying glass.  There was a pressure building over his chest, warm and heavy as though to squeeze the breath from him.  His fingers faltered against Steve’s navel, feeling lost in the tips as Steve’s eyes remained locked with his own.

He tried moving, tried swallowing or even breathing, but his body failed him.  Like the connection between his brain and his body was severed, Bucky remained flat against the mattress as Steve’s large, warm hands released Bucky’s, fingers sliding along and around his wrists, before dropping to the buttons of Bucky’s jeans.  All the while, Bucky stared, the edges of his vision blackening as he watched Steve through a tunnel; distant, disconnected, it was almost like looking through someone else’s eyes.  Observing.

Steve shifted from Bucky’s lap, easing his jeans and boxers down, careful not to jostle Bucky too much—not that it would have mattered, Bucky could barely even register the sensation of being stripped.  In the low light from the lamp, Steve’s hair and skin seemed to glow, shadows kissing what seemed just beyond reach while light illuminated the fine, toned edges of his jaw, his arms, his hands that took purchase at Bucky’s thighs. 

Bucky watched, breathing lightly once he remembered how as Steve  knelt low, his touch barely more than a feather against the unmarred skin of Bucky’s right thigh and the mottled highways of scars on his left, lips brushing against the outer curve of his calf where the scars were faintest.  A shiver sprung up his leg and coiled around his spine, bumps raising along his arms and hips as Steve traced each line, each patch, and each deformity.

Closing his eyes, Bucky relished in the silence of Steve’s hands and lips, feeling each gentle touch and kiss as though it were fire licking at everything that had been and making it new.  The heat spread, building and thickening from his calf up the side of his knee and along his thigh, fingertips pressing where kisses could not reach. 

Whimpering, Bucky chewed on his lower lip as heat raced up his side and across his abdomen, curling and intensifying in his gut.  Quietly, Steve’s voice hummed against his skin, before a flash of wet dabbed against a heavy scar in his hip.  Moaning, Bucky arched, fingers itching at his sides to grab and pull and cling, but mobility seemed so foreign and unwanted.  He let a sigh wrap around Steve’s name as the kisses inched up along his ribs where the scars were the worst.

It was almost painful with the way Steve delicately assaulted Bucky’s body with the brush of his lips and teeth, the light scraping of his nails, how he would dig his fingers into the meatiest parts of Bucky’s body and hold on for dear life.  All of this accompanied with the low hum of Steve’s voice, lips buzzing with a quiet melody that was both familiar and all new.  His nerves felt drugged, body clenching and aching for more and yet wanting nothing else but this sweet onslaught of pleasure.

Steve took careful time giving attention to the scars that webbed across Bucky’s chest and collarbones, teeth raking just hard enough to make him gasp, before his tongue traced the line of where skin met metal.  And just as Bucky was sure that Steve would kiss his way to his mouth, Steve’s hands curled at Bucky’s hips and eased him over onto his stomach instead, lips marking their way along the lines at Bucky’s neck. 

Hard, with sweat beginning to glisten in his hairline, Bucky grumbled into the pillow, reaching up to grip it with his hands as Steve’s fingers traced and massaged the scars that cut across his back and down his spine.  Gasping softly, he arched as Steve bit down into the edge of his shoulder, moaning helplessly as Steve’s hands massaged at his lower back, fingers drawing circles into his hips.

He’d never experienced anything like this before, this careful attention to everything he’d once viewed as wrong, ugly, problematic, and abhorrent about himself; hell, even when he hadn’t been mangled and marred to hell, he’d never experienced the kind of attention that Steve was giving him now.  But something about the way Steve touched and kissed him was more than just physically pleasurable; it curled into his chest, squeezed his lungs and wrapped around his heart, wanting more and pulsing with something Bucky couldn’t put a name to.  It hurt.  But it felt good.

Steve’s hands moved, cupping along the front of Bucky’s hips with his thumbs pressed into the back, lifting him onto his knees.  Bucky propped himself onto his forearms, resting his forehead into the pillow, his legs shaking.  His cock was heavy and hard between his thighs, the weight of his arousal pressing towards the head as Steve’s hands raked along the back of his thighs, fingers teasing his cheeks.  Hissing quietly, Bucky swallowed a moan as Steve’s mouth pressed to the base of his spine.  Pleasure coiled and pooled there, and Bucky bit hard onto his lip as Steve kissed along the curve of his ass, fingers ghosting against the sensitive skin. 

Stuttering, Bucky licked the swollen edge of his lip, turning his head to try and look over his shoulder at Steve.  The angle was weird, but he could see the light in his hair, the way his head dipped down and _oh—fuck, oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—_

“Steve,” Bucky let out in a strangled groan, his entire body trembling from the wet trail Steve’s tongue had just left along the stretch of skin between his aching balls and his ass.  His fingers curled so hard into the pillow he was sure he was ripping holes into the fabric, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as he heard and felt Steve’s rugged laughter against the curve of his ass.

“Yes?”  Steve mused, his hands cupping Bucky’s cheeks, spreading them slowly.

Bucky only moaned.

A hot breath ghosted against his hole and Bucky’s shoulders tightened, his face buried deep into the pillow as Steve pressed kisses above and below the skin of his hole.  He didn’t realize he was clenching his jaw hard enough to crack his teeth until Steve actually _kissed_ him there and his throat strained to release a cry of pleasure.

“ _Fuck!_ ”  Bucky cried, his left hand shooting forward to grip the headboard of his bed, fingers and thumb digging into the woodwork.  “ _Steve_ …”

“Yes?”  Steve whispered against his entrance, kissing the skin again.

Bucky whined, arching his back, leaning further towards Steve’s mouth.  What else could he say or do?  Words seemed so inadequate, and somehow verbally begging for Steve to put his tongue in Bucky’s ass just seemed _weird_ , even if the actual act of it was something Bucky felt like he was _physically dying_ for.

Steve laughed again, before tracing his tongue around the edges of Bucky’s asshole.

“ _Fuck!_ ”  Bucky shouted, his hands gripping tighter into the pillow and the headboard.  There was a creaking sound, but he ignored it.  “Oh, f-fuck, fuck…”

“Never had someone put their mouth on you like this?”  Steve inquired, his voice almost lost on Bucky’s ringing ears.  Bucky could only shake his head, hairline wet with sweat.  “Oh, Buck…  I’ll make this real good for you.”

By God, he did.

It started slow, little flashes of Steve’s tongue trailing over his hole, teeth occasionally nipping at his cheeks, kisses being left around the edges.  Eventually he started drawing circles and patterns into and around the skin, only dipping in the tiniest bit at a time.  But each touch felt like fire and acid and it sent Bucky into a fervor of trembles that might have scared him if he could think about it.  But that was posing the notion that he could think _at all_.

When Steve pressed the tip to Bucky’s hole, and eased it in, he about lost his mind.

Curses were spilling from his lips, muffled into the feather pillow that grew damp with sweat and saliva.  His shoulders ached, taught with tension as he clawed at the headboard, bringing his right hand up to match his left as he held on. His thighs shook, cock hard and dripping into the bedding as Steve wiggled his tongue inside of him. 

When Steve eased his tongue deeper, Bucky screamed into the fabric, biting hard as pleasure wracked his nerves.  He felt like he could come from this alone—from Steve’s tongue inside of him, his hands bracing Bucky’s cheeks and keeping him open.  It was new, it was wet and hot and it felt so good in ways Bucky had never realized that he wanted to cry it was so amazing.  And he was sure he might have, amidst the sweat on his face and the dampness of his mouth as he bit harder into the pillowcase.

Steve worked him, that was for sure, peppering him in kisses and praises whenever his tongue wasn’t shoved deep inside of Bucky’s ass.  His hands massaged Bucky’s cheeks, gentle and reassuring.  But the closer Bucky got to becoming entirely unraveled, the harder Steve gripped.  And just as Bucky was sure that he wasn’t going to hold on any longer, Steve let go with one hand, only to bring it back in a hard, stinging smack.

Screaming, Bucky’s hands tightened, a loud crunch and crack reverberating off of the walls.  But he wasn’t deterred, and didn’t bother to look for the source as Steve’s lips pressed to his skin, tongue thrusting in and out of his ass like it and Steve were fucking born to be there.  Choking on a sob, Bucky dropped his right hand to his cock, aching and so sensitive that even touching it made him whine.

“I’m… fuck, ‘m gonna… Steve—Steve, I’m…  I—oh, _shit, fuck me_ …”  Bucky babbled helplessly, stroking himself hard and fast before feeling Steve’s palm curling over his own, adding pressure to his grip. 

Three good strokes and he was done, coming hard against the bed spread with a cry of pleasure.  His body was shaking, nerves shot and exploding beneath his skin as Steve pulled his tongue out of his body.  He let go of himself, weakly turning to see Steve fumbling to open his jeans. 

Growling, Bucky grabbed at him, latching his mouth onto Steve’s throat as he all but ripped Steve’s jeans and belt open, pulling them down to free his cock.  Steve gasped, moaning as Bucky sucked at his neck before Bucky turned them, pressing Steve down flat into the mess he’d just made.  If Steve cared, he didn’t vocalize it.

Hungry, and wrecked on the pleasure that was still unraveling within Bucky’s veins, he bent down and took Steve’s cock in one messy but quick swallow, nearly choking before readjusting himself.  He settled into it, taking his cock deep into his throat before bobbing his head.  Steve’s fingers threaded into his hair as his moans sounded in the room.

It was impossible to determine how long Steve had lasted, but the sensation of his cock in Bucky’s mouth, the taste of him on his tongue, was enough to feel like eternity.  He hollowed his cheeks when Steve clenched, the heat of his impending orgasm warming Bucky’s mouth as he pulled back, keeping only the head between his lips as Steve cried out, arching and coming into Bucky’s mouth.

Groaning, Bucky pulled off and made a show of Steve’s cum on his tongue, wetting his lip with it before swallowing greedily.  All the while, Steve’s eyes were dark, heavy, locked on Bucky’s face.  When Bucky smirked, and showed an empty mouth, Steve bolted upright, fisting Bucky’s hair in his hands, and kissed him with a fire the devil had surely put in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this chapter to OhCaptainMyCaptain1918, for having always inspired me.   
> And because spanking while rimming is just so delicious. 
> 
> And, yes, the crunching sound was Bucky breaking the headboard. ;D


	50. Chapter 50

Per request of Sam, since the previous week had been void of a meeting, Bucky had gone in for another session early Tuesday morning, a kind of tension creeping along his shoulders that refused to let him relax.  Sam had mentioned wanting to evaluate Bucky more thoroughly now that they’d been working together for over a year (even if much of the progress had been made in the last few months), perhaps in the chance of getting Bucky to a place where he could immerse himself more fully into societal standing.

If everything was clear, it would mean that Bucky could see a specialist in prosthetics, someone who would be very intimately informed of his situation, and would be able to give Bucky the best and most fitting lines of work.  He was hoping for something physical, such as construction or working in an auto shop, or anything that would allow him to get his hands working and put his physical capability to work.  Something like a grocery store seemed ill-fitting, given the nature of his appearance and the likelihood of scaring some elderly couple or a child.

But this was all based on whether or not Sam considered him ready, mentally, for the responsibility of going into the workforce again.  As it was, Bucky hadn’t had a real job outside of the military since his college days, and that was wall over a decade ago.  It would be difficult enough to immerse him into the scene given how much had changed. 

Settling down into his usual chair, Sam gave Bucky a wide, gap-toothed smile that eased some of the strain between Bucky’s shoulder blades.  “How are you feeling today, Bucky?” 

“I’m alright.  Doing much better now, for sure.”  Bucky responded, trying to relax into the back of the couch. 

“I know last time we met you called and talked to your family.  Have you met with them?”  Bucky nodded, swallowing lightly. 

“Yeah, I actually met with them on Saturday.  We talked, had lunch dinner together and everything.  It was good—really good, I mean.”  Bucky mentioned, folding his hands together in front of him, opting to rest his elbows on his knees than lean back into the cushions.  Sam watched him carefully.

“If I may… did you show them?  It’s alright if you didn’t.”

Bucky shook his head.  “No, I did.  My sister made light of it, like she usually does when she’s uncomfortable.  My pa just hugged me.  After the initial shock they asked about it, about what I could do and how it was even possible.  I tried sparing as many of the details as I could while still telling them how it’s part of me.  I thought my ma was gonna be sick.”

Sam gave a knowing, simple smile, nodding once as he pulled a pad of paper and a pen onto his lap.  He tucked an ankle over a knee, readjusting in his seat.  “I’m glad you had a chance to be with them.  And, I hope, everything went well?  Aside from showing them and talking about your arm?”

“Yeah, it went well.”

“Good.  That’s a good step forward for you.  I know you’ve made a lot of progress with Steve and Natasha, and that being close to them is helping your recovery.  But making those connections with your family is just as important.  So I’m happy to hear that, even as emotionally overwhelming as this first meeting may have been, it still resolved well.”  Sam explained, keeping his tone even and soft.  Bucky nodded once.

“Now, we never bothered with any major anti-depressants or medications for anxiety.  Even early on, when you weren’t comfortable with saying much, you made it very clear that you didn’t want to be on anything like that, is that right?” 

“Right,” Bucky affirmed, fingers twitching and realigning themselves, “after everything from Russia and then here in the States, the last thing I wanted was _more_ drugs.”

Sam nodded.  “Which is completely fair.  This was and still is about you recovering in the most efficient and comfortable way for _you_.  Recovery is different for everyone.  Do you find now, a year later, that you may need any medications?  Or, rather, is there anything we should change about your personal care outside of these meetings?” 

“No,” said Bucky, “I don’t feel I need them.  I know it hasn’t been the easiest road, but I’ve done fine without them.  I took your advice as far as breathing exercises and mantras to get myself out of any sort of attack or sensation of distress.”

“Good,” Sam mused, writing on the pad of paper.  Bucky sighed quietly.  “Have you had any issue with anxiety attacks during the day?  Tunnel vision, moments where it’s hard to breathe, sensations of worry or doom?”

“No,” said Bucky.  “There’ve been a couple of times where I get that, sorta, like clench, y’know, when you’re nervous about something?  And sometimes the edges of my vision will waver, but I’ve always been able to breathe and get out of it.  It’s only been a few times.” 

Sam nodded again, writing a few more lines of notes.  “How has your sleep pattern been?  Are you still experiencing nightmares?”  Sam’s question hung in the open air, and Bucky felt his throat tighten.  He didn’t want to, but he knew he had to be honest.

“Y-yeah, there was one… two weeks ago, before our last session.  I’d had a couple of flashbacks over the weekend and then Steve and Nat came by to check on me.  We’d gone to bed and I remember having a really bad nightmare—the brutal parts of Russia.  The experimentation.  My captor’s voice repeating over and over that I was a soldier, a subject…”  Bucky trailed off, swallowing thickly, breathing slowly.  “I woke up to Nat and Steve holding me down, and I lashed out and hit Steve in the face.”

Sam’s eyes were locked on Bucky’s face, but betrayed nothing.  A long moment of silence passed between them and Bucky re-laced his fingers, his heart pressing to the base of his throat.  He inhaled deeply through his nose, dropping his gaze to his hands—one human, one metal, hard and soft and unforgiving and gentle.  He heard the scratch of pen on paper but didn’t raise his head.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”  Sam asked quietly, setting his pen flat against the pad.  Bucky didn’t look at him.

“How could I?”  He asked, his voice weak to his own ears. 

“Just like you did.”  Sam said.  Bucky swallowed a scoff, tightening his fingers together.

“I couldn’t.  It’d just happened, I was still reeling, trying to process it.  It was easier to pretend it hadn’t happened than to talk about it.  I couldn’t…  I..”  he stammered, unfolding his hands to rub his forehead.

“We could have talked through it, Bucky,” Sam eased, dropping his leg to lean forward a little.  “We could have gotten to the root of it, figured it out.”

“What was there to _figure_ out, Sam?”  Bucky asked, finally looking up at the man, “I’d just had one of the worst nightmares of my life—so bad that I was thrashing in my sleep, and when the people I care so much about tried to wake me, tried to get me to stop, I hurt one of them.  And it’s not like it was with my right hand—I hit Steve with my _metal_ hand.  I could’ve fucking broke something in him.  I could’ve killed him.  I couldn’t waltz in here and pretend that that was okay, that I could just talk about that shit willy-nilly.  So yeah, I kept it from you.  I’m sorry.  But I couldn’t bring myself to accept the fact that for all the progress I’ve made, I’m still capable of being a danger to someone.  Fuck, I _still_ can’t accept that.”

In truth, he was surprised Sam let him talk as long as he did.  But he did, and he watched Bucky with soft, compassionate brown eyes that seemed so sad, so tired— _how many times has he helped vets like me, heard things like this from others?_

Sam sat back in his chair, letting out a breath.  “I’m sorry.  I should’ve realized that the situation would be delicate.”

It seemed like a cheap excuse, and Bucky swallowed, shaking his head.  “Don’t bother with the evaluation,” he mumbled.  “I know I’m not ready.”

“I didn’t say that, Bucky.  One attack doesn’t make you suddenly ineligible for work.”

“But you’re thinking it.  Besides, who’s to say it won’t happen again?  I know what you’re thinking—what if something goes sour while I’m at work.  What if someone just grates me so bad that I lash out?  What if I break something without meaning to?”  Bucky rambled, feeling jitters creeping along his hands and legs.  He needed out.  “It’s fine, Sam.  Don’t worry about the evaluation.  I know I’ve got shit I need to work through.” 

Bucky stood, muttering about how he’d see Sam in a week, before turning to the door.


	51. Chapter 51

If Bucky could be entirely honest with himself, he really wasn’t sure how Thanksgiving dinner was going to go down. 

He knew he had to be hopeful; his last reunion with his family had gone well, both Natasha and Steve were excited to meet them and become familiar with a part of Bucky’s life from before Russia and before the service.  Sure, things hadn’t gone smoothly with his last session with Sam and, while he felt like he’d made major emotional and mental progress it was clear that he wasn’t ready to integrate into society, but that was a small matter.  Surely nothing he needed to worry about right now.

Even still, as he was toweling his hair and stepping into his bedroom, there was a lingering tickle at the back of his mind, like someone invading his space without physically touching him.  He was still hurt by how Sam had reacted, he was still upset that he wasn’t deemed “ready”; Sam might not have said it aloud, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there, hanging like a thunderstorm above his head.

It didn’t come as much of a surprise to Bucky when he’d gone to bed that night and was restless as ever; when sleep had come to him, it was ill, flashes of nightmares and sensations of panic creeping over him like spiders.  More than once he’d flailed awake, legs tangled in sheets, sweat on his skin.  It made his heart pound and his head ache, and going back to sleep proved over and over to be more difficult than before.

But he’d had a day to collect himself, to gather his thoughts and remind himself that he had good people in his life.  Steve and Natasha trusted and cared for him, his family loved and wanted to support him moving forward.  Even Gwen had given him a call to check in make sure he was okay—to which he apologized that he hadn’t at least stopped by to see his favorite blond porn-store-owner.  She’d laughed, and it had warmed his heart at least.

Wrapping his towel around his waist, Bucky sauntered over to the closet, digging through what little was hanging inside.  He made to grab the hanger holding his dress uniform when he stopped, feeling the material with his fingertips before pulling away.  No, he couldn’t.  It might make his parents happy, but he hadn’t worn that since the commemorative ceremony before going off to Russia.  He couldn’t.

Sighing, he pulled a striped sweater down from a small shelf, tossing it over to his bed before going to rummage through his dresser.  He still was in desperate need of a shopping spree, but the last thing he wanted was to go store to store looking for clothing to elegantly hide how much of a broken man he was.

_Stop that.  It’s Thanksgiving, for fuck’s sake.  Steve will be here soon to pick you up so you can go spend time with your family.  Think about that_.

He dressed quickly, sliding into a pair of black pants before pulling the sweater over his head.  He looped Steve’s tags around his neck before running the towel over his head again, squeezing out the last of the water before returning to his bathroom.  A quick shave to clear the stubble and a spray of some old cologne from somewhere he couldn’t remember, Bucky smoothed the wrinkles from his clothing just as a knock was heard at his door.

Slipping out of the bathroom and down the hall, he turned the corner and unlatched the door to see Steve standing on the other side.  Steve, with darkening hair and a clean shave, wearing a dark blazer and a pair of fitted jeans, gave Bucky a soft smile before stepping across the threshold to press a kiss to his cheek. 

“I feel so underdressed,” Bucky mused, turning his head to catch Steve’s lips, feeling the buzz of laughter against his mouth.  A soft moan escaped him as Steve’s hands came to cup his cheeks, pulling him just a little bit closer as Steve deepened the kiss. 

Though it had only been a few days since he last saw Steve, it had felt like an eternity.  Between his own things and Steve helping a friend of his move out of the city, they hadn’t spent much time together.  But the soft tickle of Steve’s fingers against the scars on the left side of Bucky’s neck sent a shiver down his spine, and he pictured the missing chunk from his headboard.

Heels came down the hall and Bucky pulled away to see Natasha coming up beside Steve, her red hair hanging around her shoulders, a white blouse adorned with a small black bow gracing her frame.  Black pants and heels completed the look, and she gave them a small smile with her full lips before leaning into the doorframe.

“Are you two lovebirds going to stand here, or are we going to get going?”  She asked, folding her arms over her chest.  Steve smiled, and Bucky caught the glint of a chain around his neck.  He still had the tags, too.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve pressed, tucking his arm with Bucky’s, “we’re coming.”

Bucky’s parents were just outside of Brooklyn in the same house that they’d been in since Bucky was a small boy and Rebecca a mere thought on their parents’ minds.  And it was a quiet little thing, modest in its build and style, with a neatly trimmed front yard and flower pots by the door.  But it was just as Bucky remembered it as Steve pulled up to the front curb, turning the ignition of his car to kill the engine.  The same paint color on the trim, if not a little faded, the same flowers—lilies—the same patch in the grass that would never really grow quite right when Bucky used too much weed killer one summer.

It seemed like a place from a distant memory; one far away and almost unfamiliar.  Bucky swallowed the thickening lump in his throat, breathing steadily as he stared at the house through the car window.  Behind him, Natasha shifted, and her arm came around his seat to touch his shoulder.

“You’re okay,” she said, and Bucky nodded once. 

Unlatching his seatbelt, Bucky opened the door and stepped out just as the front door opened, and his mother came bustling out with a smile on her face.  She came across the lawn, arms open wide, and Bucky smiled faintly as she wrapped him up in an embrace.  She smelled of vanilla and roast, and he buried his nose into her hair to smell the lavender of her shampoo instead.

When they pulled away, her eyes landed on Steve first.  “You must be Steve,” she said, and Bucky watched as Steve blushed, dipping his head into a small nod before reaching a hand out to her.  Winifred waved him off and pulled him into a hug, and warmth filled Bucky’s heart.  “I’m a hugger, young man, and very happy that you make my boy happy.” 

“He makes me happy, too,” Bucky heard Steve say.  Winifred pulled away just as Natasha stepped up beside Bucky, her hands folded in front of her. 

“Hi, I’m—” Natasha began to speak, but Winifred only grinned.

“Natasha.  James has told me of you.  He speaks quite highly of you—says you’re an absolutely wonderful dancer,” Bucky glanced at Natasha to see her cheeks turn lightly pink, and her shoulder bumped his.

“He’s not so bad himself,” Natasha said.  Winifred laughed, before leading them inside.

If the exterior of the house was enough to elicit good memories and nostalgia, the interior was almost overwhelming.  Family photographs covered the walls, lining side tables and shelves.  The furniture was the same, the carpeting was the same—if not a little dirtier than it used to be.  His trophy from the dance competition was still over in the corner and the coatrack with his father’s wool coat was hanging on its usual hook. 

Rebecca came first into the front room, embracing him with a smile and a light smell of perfume before turning her attention to Steve and Natasha.  “Who’re your friends, Jamie?”

“This is Steve and Natasha.  Steve, Nat, this is my baby sister Rebecca,” Bucky said, motioning between the three of them. 

“Pleasure to meet ya,” Rebecca said, shaking their hands.  Steve and Natasha smiled warmly at her, exchanging pleasantries as George came around the corner, drying his hands on a white towel.

“Pa,” Bucky said softly, going to give his father a one armed hug before turning towards his family—Steve and Natasha side by side, with Winifred and Rebecca on either side of them.  He felt his heart tug, warming at the sight of everyone he cared so deeply about standing together, and he licked his lips.  “I want you to meet some people.  This is Natasha, a very dear friend of mine.  And Steve—my partner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is strictly filler, so I apologize if parts seemed rushed, vague, or entirely boring. It's not really meant to be anything special (unless you consider it special, then by all means thank you <3), and the next one... well, it'll be interesting. 
> 
> There are a couple of specific looks that the gang are sporting for this chapter. For Bucky, he looks like this (except clean shaved and with long hair)  
> 
> 
> Steve looks like this, but with a different shirt so you can see the chain of the tags around his neck  
> 
> 
> And Natasha looks like this  
> 


	52. Chapter 52

“Partner?”  Steve came up beside him as Bucky was washing his hands in the bathroom just off of the dining room.  He took a glance up at Steve through the mirror, careful with not letting the water saturate too much of the fiber of his left palm before shutting off the water, and drying his hands.

Swallowing slowly, Bucky nodded.  “I…  I know you said we’re in it together and _we’re_ together, but does that mean boyfriend, is it partner? Companion?  I mean…  I don’t wanna put a label on it without knowing for sure.” 

He didn’t look Steve in the eye, only listening as he spoke.  “But partner was okay?”  There was something light to it, but it felt forced.  Not like Steve’s usual joking manner.  Bucky breathed slowly, looking up at Steve.  His expression was passive, but his eyes were unreadable.  Almost distant.  Steve blinked, and it was gone.  “I mean it’s okay.  I’m okay with it as long as you are—it’s not a bad thing.  But I thought you weren’t worried anymore?  About us and what it means to you.”

“I’m not,” Bucky pressed, hanging the towel back onto its hoop by the mirror.  “I’m not worried, Steve.”

“Then relax,” Steve mused with a soft smile, cupping Bucky’s cheeks in his hands.  Bucky sighed, tilting his head into Steve’s hands.  He wanted this to go well— _needed_ it go well.  He needed his family to approve, and to accept that Bucky’s life was different.  He needed them to understand just how much Steve and Natasha meant to him, what their friendship and compassion had done for him in the last few months especially. 

But relaxing was easier said than done.  He’d felt his father tense at the mention of Steve being his partner, even if George hadn’t said anything or reacted coldly to Steve.  Not to mention the session with Sam and the nightmares were still present in the back of his mind, creeping up whenever he wasn’t occupied with talk or other thoughts.  Even still, he couldn’t quite ease the tension at the base of his neck or bring his shoulders down from his goddamn earlobes. 

Steve kissed him slowly, chaste and simple as it was.  A warmth stirred in Bucky’s stomach, but it did nothing to creep into his spine or ease his worries. 

“Jamie,” Rebecca called, and Bucky pulled away, turning his head to see his sister poking her head around the corner.  “C’mere, I need your help with this damn bird.”

Chuckling weakly, he slipped out of the bathroom before following his sister into kitchen, where the smells of potatoes, bread, turkey, and half a dozen other such delicacies wafted around him like a snowstorm.  Inhaling deeply, Bucky licked his lips before meeting Rebecca by the oven.  “Smells good in here,” he commented.

“Ma wanted it perfect for you.  ‘S why she didn’t have you come over earlier—she wanted you to walk in and have it feel like home.” 

“Would’a felt more like home had she invited me to help.  _That_ would’a been a proper Thanksgiving for the Barnes family.”  Rebecca laughed, shaking her head slowly. 

“Yeah, that’s true,” she mused, opening the oven door.  She grabbed potholders, and started to hand one to Bucky before he reached in with his left hand, grabbing one handle with his metal fingers.  “Jamie—!”

“What?  I can’t feel it.  C’mon you wanted my help.” Rebecca stared, watching heat radiating around his metal hand.  He could feel the sensation of warmth, but that was all.

“That’s just… weird.”  She shook her head, holding the opposite handle with her potholders, before lifting the pan out of the oven and placing it on the stove.  She stared a moment longer, before setting the holders aside.  Tentatively, she reached out, and Bucky watched as she trailed her fingers over the synthetic material, fingers following the lines of the plates, which were cooling in the open air.

“Did it hurt?”  She asked.  He hadn’t really talked in great detail about the procedure, but he was sure he could remember telling her and their parents that it had, in fact, hurt.

“Of course,” he said quietly, and her fingers laced with his.

“I’m sorry…” she trailed off, pressing her forehead to his shoulder.  “Fuck, Jamie, I’m so sorry.  All this time we were just sitting here waiting and you were fighting to survive, and—”

“Bec— _Becca_ …”  Bucky cut in, kissing her forehead, “if you think for a moment that this is your fault, you’re wrong.  You, and Ma, and Pa, none of you knew.  How could you’ve known?”

“Doesn’t excuse it,” she mumbled.  Bucky smiled weakly, swallowing the clench in his throat.

“I don’t blame you.  Could never.  Don’t let it get to you, not now, okay?  I’m home.  I’m not going anywhere.”  Rebecca scoffed, sniffling quietly before wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Fucking better not.”  Rebecca dabbed her eyes gently before smiling at Bucky, and punching at his non-metal arm.  “So.  You and Steve, huh?”

Bucky rolled his eyes and smiled.  “You didn’t really need my help, did you?”

“Course not, but I figured this was the only real chance I’d get to ask you in private.  He seems really nice though.  I can tell he cares about ya,” she said, folding her arms over her stomach, leaning against the counter.  Bucky smiled, nodding.

“He does, yeah.  And I care for him.  He’s good to me.  Sometimes too much.”  Bucky trailed off, looking back toward the bathroom.  It was dark.

“Nah, I think it’s the right amount.  If it were too much, you’d feel suffocated.  And I don’t think he does that to you.”  Rebecca mused.  Bucky looked back to her, watching her eyes for a moment before smiling.  He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face.

“When did you grow up and get so smart, Bec?”

“A long time ago,” she whispered, stepping off from the counter before hugging him.  “’m not your baby sister anymore.”

“I’m sorry I missed you growing up.”

“Not your fault.”  Bucky smirked, kissing her hair.

“Doesn’t excuse it.”

“Hey you two,” Winifred said, stepping into the kitchen.  Bucky pulled back enough to acknowledge his mother, and Rebecca dabbed her eyes again.  Winifred gave them a small, tender smile before coming in close.  “Rebecca, go help your father set the table.  James, if you wouldn’t mind getting our guests situated?”

“Need help with the bird?”  Bucky asked, glancing to it.  Winifred shook her head and smiled.

Within a few moments, Bucky was seated at the table he’d spent so many holiday dinners, birthdays, family gatherings, arguments, and projects at, with Steve on his right at the end of the table, Natasha just across from him.  Rebecca sat to his left, with their mother on Natasha’s right, and Bucky’s father at the end opposite from Steve.  The surface was covered with plate-and-silver-wear, cups filled with varying drinks like water, egg nog, or cider.  A large bowl of potatoes at one end with gravy, stuffing and corn at the other.  One plate had cranberry sauce while another platter had warmed dinner rolls, with a pâté of butter nearby. 

Warm, late afternoon light spilled in from the windows, casting a glow across the table, and Bucky felt Steve’s fingers slip into his hand before lacing between his own.  Smiling, Bucky glanced over to Steve, bringing his hand up to kiss Steve’s knuckles.  For the first time since his session with Sam, Bucky could feel the knots in his neck and shoulders beginning to unravel, little by little.  His head was still full and a part of him still hurt, but he knew he would be okay.

“Do you say grace before a meal, Steve?”  Winifred asked, bringing a folded napkin down to her lap.

Steve smiled, chuckling quietly.  “It’s been years since I last did.  I was raised Catholic by my parents, but haven’t been practicing since my mom passed,” he admitted softly.  Winifred’s brow creased, and Bucky gave Steve’s hand a squeeze.

“Would you like to say grace?  You don’t have to, of course.”

“I would like that, actually,” Steve said, nodding, before taking Natasha’s hand as well.  Bucky reached over, ready to take Rebecca’s hand before locking their pinkies instead, taking after a long childhood tradition instead.  His sister smiled, perhaps grateful, before taking their father’s hand as well.  George and Winifred laced fingers, and Winifred and Natasha gingerly took hold of one another.  Bucky felt his heart in his throat.

As Steve began to speak, Bucky recognized the words first as the Lord’s Prayer—words in his rebellious youth he had rarely spoken unless directed to, and had often struggled with as far as the repetitions of the variation of _trespass_.  He listened, letting his eyes slip shut as Steve spoke, the words filling the air and washing over him.  He had never been as devout as his family, had found little comfort in prayers during certain parts of his life.  But listening to Steve speak stirred a kind of faith that Bucky hadn’t felt in years, and as Steve ended with a common grace, and the table resounded with an _Amen_ , he felt almost at peace.

“Thank you, Steve,” Winifred commented, and Steve bowed his head. 

They served one another, passing dishes and bowls back and forth until all plates were loaded with food.  George had carved the turkey, serving heaping portions to everyone with a smile, before taking his seat beside Winifred.  Bucky took a small bite to start, relishing in the flavors that welcomed a blaze of memories.  All the while, he never let go of Steve’s hand.

“Rebecca,” Natasha said after a moment, wiping at her mouth with her napkin, “Bucky’s been rather stingy on details of his family.  What is it you like to do?”

Rebecca eyed him, before smiling, “Sounds like Jamie.  Tends to be a kinda private person.  I graduated from college with a teaching degree in English.  I wanna help kids better their understanding of words and how to put them together to create something beautiful.  I minored in social sciences because people themselves tend to fascinate me.”

Natasha smiled.  “I majored in dance and sociology, so I understand.”

“You’re a dancer?”  Winifred asked, looking over at Natasha.

Natasha nodded.  “I was actually born in Russia, and I came to the States to study.  I could’ve done more with dancing back home, but I wanted to do something different.  I wanted different opportunities.  I actually met Steve the first time shortly after coming here.”

“Did you go to school together?”  Rebecca asked.  Steve chuckled, glancing at Natasha.

“She was my TA in one of my art classes in college, actually.  We knew each other before then, but we always talk about how she basically saved my grade that quarter.”

“You studied art?”  Winifred pressed, a smile warming her face.  “So did James.  Well, as a minor.”

“He told me,” Steve mused, giving Bucky’s hand a squeeze before sipping his cider.  “He mentioned that he studied engineering and minored in art, but that he also loved ballroom dancing.”

Bucky’s face flushed lightly.  “’m not as good as Nat is though,”

“Well when you’re trained in Russia, it’s hard to be better,” Natasha joked.  Quiet laughter rolled over the table.

“So you two met in college,” George mused, smiling warmly.  “When did you meet James?”

“We met Bucky back in October, actually, early,” Steve said, “through a mutual friend of ours.  She gave me a call one day and talked up Bucky like he was a gift from God.”

 _Pretty sure that’s not how it happened, but I’ll take it.  Better than admitting she’s a porn store owner and I was obsessing over your films_.

“And you’ve been dating since then?”  George asked.  Bucky felt his throat tighten.

“Well, not strictly since then.  We got to know each other.  Went for coffee, things like that.  We actually went paintballing together a while back, and I told Bucky that I was a war vet, too,” Steve explained, taking a small bite of his potatoes.

“How long have you been home?”  Winifred asked.

“Since oh-nine.”  Steve responded after swallowing, and Bucky’s mother nodded.

“Oh-nine?  Can’t imagine a veteran’s pension would be enough to keep you comfortable for five years though,” said George, chewing slowly on a piece of turkey.  “Are you working outside of that?”

 _Oh, no_.

Steve quietly cleared his throat, and Bucky nearly speared his fork through his plate.

“Well, yeah, I have been working, actually—”

Something must have possessed Bucky to speak so quickly.

“Yeah, he works with Natasha,” it was sudden, it was unplanned.  He wasn’t even sure he knew how to spin it.  But the words came and he couldn’t make them stop, even though he could feel Steve’s eyes suddenly shifting to him.  “Nat hadn’t mentioned it yet, but she actually has her own studio and students.  Steve helps.”

Did Steve actually?

He could feel both Natasha and Steve staring at him.  He swallowed thickly.

“Well, I—I do sometimes, sure,” Steve said slowly, his eyes never leaving Bucky’s face. Bucky’s eyes never left his plate, and he slipped his fork between his teeth. 

“It’s a work in progress kind of thing, really,” Natasha added, taking a bite and chewing slowly on her turkey.  Sweat gathered along the back of Bucky’s neck.  “It’s not my primary line of work right now, and certainly isn’t Steve’s, either—”

“Hey, Bec, can you pass me the gravy?”  Bucky asked, looking past his sister to the gravy dish on their father’s left. 

“Um, sure.”  Gravy dish passed; gravy applied to potatoes and turkey.  Perfect.  Steve was still staring at him.

“So if working at the dance studio isn’t your primary focus, then what is?”  George pressed.  Bucky caught his eye, struggling to breathe for a moment.

_Just stop, just be honest._

_No.  I can’t.  Pa is already on the fence.  I can’t make this worse._

“He’s an artist,” Bucky cut in before Steve could speak.  “Majored in it in college.  He’s really amazing at what he does.”

“I’m not on commission, though.  When I came home from the service I had a bit of a rough time settling back in, and art wasn’t really on my mind at the time,” Steve explained, his voice painfully even.  He finally looked away from Bucky, long enough to address George and Winifred before sipping his cider.  Bucky shoved cranberry sauce into his mouth.

“So you’re not on commission for art now, but you plan to be?”  Winifred asked, sweeping her gaze to Bucky before going back to Steve.  The silverware sounded like bombs against the plates. 

“Someday, sure.  I’ve considered getting my work out there, maybe seeing if I can get some panels in at a newspaper or something online.” 

“So, in the meantime, how do you make do?” 

“I—”

“Ma, did you add garlic to these potatoes?”  said Bucky, staring hard at his mother.  Winifred raised an eyebrow, and sighed quietly, before nodding.

“Steve?”  George inquired, ignoring Bucky at this point.

“Right.  It’s not the most conventional thing but Nat and I—”

“We should crack open some more cider,” Bucky interrupted again, his heart pounding beneath his sweater.  He felt hot, desperate for reasons he couldn’t express.  His hands twitched.

Steve looked angry, “—we’re in an off-shoot of the film industry.  Primarily online, subscription based.”  He was trying so hard to be gentle.  _Just let him speak.  Stop freaking out.  Stop worrying._

_I need this to go well._

_What would happen?  Honestly?_

“Online film?  About what?”  George said, leaning forward a little.  Bucky could barely breathe.

“It’s—”

His metal hand twitched, violently, and his knife cracked through his plate.

“James—!”  Winifred exclaimed, standing.  George’s eyes snapped to Bucky, startled.  Rebecca moved away, gasping, knocking over her cider.  Steve jumped a little, looking to Bucky, first startled and concerned before quickly turning to exasperated.

“I didn’t mean to—” Bucky mumbled.  He really hadn’t.

“Bucky—” Steve began.  Natasha folded her napkin and stood, and the room fell silent.

“Steve and I are porn stars,” she began, first staring coldly at Bucky, before turning her attention to the rest of the Barnes family.  “He’s tried to be eloquent and gentle about the topic, and James is being ridiculous.  But the fact of the matter is that this is what we do—we fuck people on camera for a living.  We’re safe about it, we get tested regularly, and we don’t do anything we’re uncomfortable with.  It’s not glamorous, or conventional.  But it’s our current life, it’s what makes us happy, it puts food in our homes and a roof over our heads.  I apologize for the disruption; this has been a wonderful dinner, and I’m really sorry this is how it’s turned out.”

Bucky’s insides twisted and turned and melted into rot.  He dipped his head, staring at his hands in his lap.  His heart thudded angrily against the tags pressing to his skin, his leg bouncing under the table.  Heat flushed his face and body, and something began to sting the corner of his eye.  Embarrassed wasn’t nearly adequate enough to describe how he was feeling, and the longer he sat in silence, the worse it became.

There was a sound of silverware being set down, a quiet sigh from somewhere to his left.  A hand came into view to tenderly clear away the fragmented plate sitting in front of him.  Food had spilled and stained onto the tablecloth below.  Words were spoken, but they fell on deaf ears as Bucky mumbled about being excused before standing slowly.  He turned away, walking out of the dining room and through a hallway towards the back parlor space, where a set of French doors led out onto a small patio outside.  
  
Air.  Air would be good.

Slipping through the doors, Bucky inhaled the crisp, almost chilling November air.  He crossed his arms over his stomach, clenching his jaw as he kicked at a piece of dirt that had come onto the tiling.  There were footsteps, and a door closing behind him.  He wanted to disappear.

“What the hell was that all about?”  Steve’s voice was hurt.  He didn’t need to look at him to know that.

“I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Bullshit.  We’re gonna fucking talk about it, Buck,” Steve chipped, coming around to look Bucky in the face.  “You kept interrupting me, changing the subject.  Why?  Did you not want your parents to know that Nat and I are porn stars?”  Bucky’s throat tightened, and he blinked back tears, looking away from Steve.

“It’s not like that, Steve,” he began.  Steve shook his head.

“No?  Then what’s going on?  Because it looked like to me you were doing everything possible to keep the truth from coming out.  Are you embarrassed of what I do?  Are you ashamed?”  Steve hissed, squinting his eyes.  Bucky could see tears glistening in them, and his heart lurched.

“No!  No, I’m not—”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes!”  Bucky exclaimed, tightening his arms further around himself.  Steve stepped back, clenching his jaw.

“Then what is it, Bucky?  You told me you didn’t care.  You said it was fine, so what changed?”

“Nothing changed, Steve, I just… I didn’t think…”

“Didn’t think what?”

“I didn’t think it was a good dinner conversation, okay?”  _Lies_.

“A ‘good dinner conversation’?  What does that mean?”

“I mean this is my family, and I’ve been away, and so much as changed—”

“So it’s not a good _family_ subject.  You want me to lie to your family?”  Steve said.  Bucky wanted to scream.

“No!  That’s not what I meant!”

“Then what _do_ you mean, Bucky?”

“I don’t want them to think bad of you, Steve,” Bucky tried again, but the words still felt forced and fake and _lies lies lies lies_.

“Bad of me?  Bucky, I want them to like me, and to accept me, but do you honestly think I give a goddamn what they think of my career?  It’s _my_ career.  It’s _my_ life.  As long as you’re safe and happy with me, that’s all that should fucking matter to them!”  Steve’s voice was climbing, and Bucky mumbled helplessly. 

“That does matter to them,” Bucky began, swallowing thickly.  “But…  Other things matter, too.”

“Like what?  Nat made it pretty clear that we’re safe, consensual, we get tested, and everything’s good at our job.  It’s not pretty or perfect but we take the necessary steps.  What more could they want?”

“They’re just old fashioned.” _Lies.  Lies!_

“So what, I should just start saying ‘Hi, I’m Steve Rogers.  I can’t disclose my profession because it would disrupt this crazy façade my boyfriend has about me’?  I can’t fucking do that, Buck.” 

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Steve, that’s _not_ what I meant.”

“ _Then what do you mean?_ ”  Steve shouted, hands thrown to the side, “I’m a _porn star_ , Bucky!  I’ve been one for years.  I’ve been one long before I met your family.  I’ve been one long before I met you.  That changes nothing about me.  And asking me to pretend to be something else is extremely unfair to the both of us.”

“I’m not asking you to pretend!”  Bucky snapped, tangling his fingers in his hair.  He needed to pace.  He needed to breathe and walk it off.  The edges were getting fuzzy.  “I’m not asking you to do anything, god _damnit_ …”

“Then why can’t you accept what I do and am?”

“I fucking do!”  He turned on Steve, staring him down.  “I do!”

“Then _why_ avoid the conversation?  Just _tell_ me.”

“Just… fucking imagine if our positions were switched, Steve.  Put yourself in my place for just a moment.”  Steve’s eyes narrowed, turning cold very quickly.  Bucky swallowed, but the lump that was his shaking heart did not abate in the slightest.

“My parents wouldn’t have cared, Buck.  So long as I was safe and happy and with someone who respected my decisions and my being.  But this isn’t a reversed situation.  I can’t ‘be in your shoes’.  My parents aren’t here being asked—yours are.”

Bucky groaned.  “You’re not listening!”

“I am listening _very_ carefully, Bucky.  I’m hearing excuses from someone who is afraid to be honest with his parents, with his sister—even with himself.  I’ve asked you repeatedly to just talk to me, explain what you mean, and you keep avoiding my question.  Are you even being honest with _me_ right now?”  Bucky watched Steve, searching his eyes.  No, no, no, this wasn’t—no… _no, stop.  Don’t.  Don’t give me that look, please don’t give me that look_.

“I’m always honest with you, Steve…”

“Then tell me _exactly_ why you didn’t want your parents to know.  Tell me _exactly_ what it is that’s rubbing you so wrong about the fact that I fuck people for money on camera.  Tell me _exactly_ what it is that you’re holding back.  All I’ve ever asked is for you to be _honest_ with me, Bucky.  That is _all_ I have ever wanted.”

Tears clung to and spilled from Bucky’s eyes and he bowed his head, shaking.  He wanted Steve to come and hold him, to kiss them away.  But he knew Steve wouldn’t; and Steve didn’t.  He remained a cautious few steps away from Bucky, arms at his sides, face passive, eyes becoming rapidly unreadable.  He wanted to take all of this back.  He wanted to just let it all go.  But things just all felt so wrong and so tense and he wanted to scream and cry and disappear and forget that all of this had happened.

Shaking his head, Bucky choked on a breath, before speaking.  “I failed an evaluation with Sam that would’ve made me eligible to go back to work.  I didn’t want to come here and fail my parents.  I’ve already proven I can’t handle being more than a broken veteran freak who stays home all the fucking time, I didn’t want to be the fuck-up son either.”

Steve watched him, and if anything had changed about his feelings or his thoughts, he kept it carefully guarded.  Bucky sniffed, shoulders bent, head down, hair in his face as tears fell from his eyes.  _Pathetic.  Weak_.

“I’m sorry about your evaluation,” Steve said, voice monotone.  “And I’m sorry you felt afraid to make a wrong impression for your family.  I get it.  You’ve been away from home for so long, you wanna do right by them.  Clearly my career doesn’t fit that definition of right.”

Bucky shook his head, “Steve, please…”

“No, Bucky.  I…  I care so much about you.  And I want to be with you, I really, _really fucking do_.  But you’ve got something going on that I just can’t help with right now.  You need some time to sort it out.”

“No, Steve…”  Bucky’s eyes widened, and he stepped towards Steve.

Steve… stepped back.

“Bucky, no.  You need to talk to your family.  You need some time for yourself.  I care about you.  I… I l—” Steve choked, a tear streaking down his face.  He swallowed that word, sighing heavily.  “I can’t.”

“Steve, _please_ ,” Bucky begged, hands clenching, heart aching.  “I need you.”

“I need you, too,” Steve said.  “But we need a break.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record.  
> I'm so sorry.
> 
> Update (6/1/15)  
> I need to make a formal note and apology. A majority of this chapter was really inspired and fleshed out with the help of OhCaptainMyCaptain1918, and I (being a little shit) did not thank her appropriately or adequately for her help. So, for that, I am really sorry. But I am also extremely thankful for you, Captain, for your assistance and patience, and for providing logic where there wasn't any. This chapter by no means was perfect or how we thought it would be, but I am still extremely grateful for you with this, and for many points prior to this.


	53. Chapter 53

New voicemail: Rebecca Barnes.

_Hi, Jamie.  It’s Bec.  We haven’t heard from you in a few days and we wanted to make sure you’re okay.  We’re all worried, and we love you, but… we understand you need time.  Please give us a call—at—at least call Ma, okay?  Love you._

* * *

  _The procedure has started._

_Zero-zero-one._

_A masterpiece._

_Please kill me, kill me, kill me—_

_A masterpiece._

_Put a bullet through my head._

_The ten places I’ve marked._

_This is what I’m made of—_

* * *

 New voicemail: Sam Wilson.

_Bucky, it’s Sam.  I was hoping you’d be able to come by my office, or—or even meet me at that café you like to go to.  I would like to talk to you—and apologize.  Please, give me a call._

* * *

 New voicemail: Pa.

_James, it’s me.  Look, I know things didn’t go over well at dinner but your mother and I are worried about you.  We haven’t heard anything, and while we don’t want to intrude on your space, we need to make sure you’re okay.  Please, son._ Breath.  _I…  I didn’t handle what you said to the best of my ability, and I’m—I’m really sorry.  Who you’re with—it doesn’t matter as long as you’re happy and safe.  And what they do… it doesn’t matter either.  It’s a lot to take in, but we’re your family.  God put us here, together, to get through the good and bad.  Your mother and I support you.  We love you.  Please call us._

* * *

 Breathing hard.  Tunnel vision—can’t… can’t see.  Can’t see, can’t breathe, fingers clutching, pulling at things that aren’t there, pushing away ghosts and memories.  Crying out, clawing sheets that feel like sandpaper.

 Cold.  Cold, cold, cold, cold, c—fire…  Fire.

* * *

The woman from the front desk came.  Lip chewed nervously, eyes guarded but curious.

_Are you alright, Mr. Barnes?_

Blank stares, scruffy face, unkempt hair sloppily pulled back.  Swallowed the lump.  No good.  Nodded once.

_Some.. some folks have been asking, wanting to know if you're okay.  Are you sure?  Is there anything I can do, someone I can call?_

Shake head.  No words, but she understood.  She mentioned something about taking care, maybe seeking help, before walking away.  Didn’t hear her.  Closed the door.  Locked it.

* * *

 New voicemail: Gwen Stacey.

_Hey, Bucky, it’s, ah, it’s Gwen.  I, uh, I haven’t seen you in a while and the shop feels kinda lonely without my favorite customer…_ Nervous laughter, forced.  _Listen, I, uh, I don’t really know what happened, or what’s going on.  But I want you to know I am here for you.  I’m worried about you._   Click.

* * *

Awake, screaming.  Throat hoarse, tears streaming down face.  Not Russia this time.  Not pain, not cold or fire, or metal or blood.

It’s the words, the blank stares, the distance.  _I need you, but we need a break_.

_I need you_.

_I need you.  I need you.  I need youIneedyouIneedyou—_

* * *

 Some of his food started to go bad.  His trashcan became full of spoiled eggs, moldy bread, an empty milk jug, expired cream cheese…

He pulled out the bottle of coffee creamer and started to cry.

* * *

Flames.

He was running, running from the facility, running from Zola, running from the pain and torment and torture and anguish and and and and—

And there was a light up ahead.  And a figure waiting, with blond hair and blue eyes and a hand reaching out, calling for him, begging for him to hurry.

And he could hear crumbling and crashing, explosions as the fire engulfed the building around him. 

He reached out, so close fingers could touch.  The floor caved and he fell.

* * *

_I need you, too—_

 

_Did you… really?  Do you still?_

_Was I fooling myself?  Am I holding on… for nothing?_

* * *

 New voicemail: Natalia Romanoff

_James, your sister called me.  Your mother is in hysterics._ Long silence, breath.  _It’s… fuck, James, I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I shouldn’t have said anything at dinner, but I did.  I can’t take it back, and I wish I could.  I wish we could go back and do that night over.  And I didn’t want to do this over the phone but you’re not picking up and I don’t…  I don’t know what else to do._ Silence.  _I haven’t been able to get a hold of Steve, either.  So please, just call your mother.  Talk to her.  Talk to me.  Please, James… please, just… be okay…_

* * *

 He only ate when the hunger became so bad he would faint sitting up, and he would lose feeling in his fingers and feet.  And, when he did, he would gorge on food, finding anything and everything that hadn’t expired until he couldn’t physically eat another thing.

And the cycle would begin again.

* * *

 Missed call: Steve Rogers.

No voicemail.

* * *

 New voicemail: Ma.

_I can’t do this, James.  I won’t sit by while you’re grieving anymore.  I won’t let you push me, your father, or your sister away.  We’re coming over._

* * *

 The door unlocked and swung open.  Bucky didn’t move from his position on the couch, eyes closed but not sleeping, breathing even despite how weak he felt. 

Had he an opportunity to see himself from an outside perspective, he would think his state weak, diminished, and pathetic.  For all the progress he’d made, the strength and courage he’d developed, he was nothing now.  Left only with exhaustion and a strange sensation of hunger but no desire to eat, Bucky couldn’t even bring himself to move when voices surrounded him.

People were speaking, but it was muted, distant, and not unlike being trapped in a tunnel.  Echoes, shallow and faint, reverberated, and he slowly burrowed his head deeper into his arm.  A hand touched his face.  He recognized the perfume, the smoothness of the skin, the smell of shampoo.  He didn’t open his eyes.

“Jamie,” his mother’s voice was a whisper.  “Jamie, please, wake up.”

_Open your eyes._

_I can’t._

_Yes, you can._

_No, I—_

“Jamie, please,” his mother begged.  With effort, he cracked his eyes slowly.  Behind his mother he could vaguely see Rebecca’s outline, and their father beside her.  “Jamie…  God, look at you…”

“Jesus Chris,” Rebecca breathed.  Bucky blinked slowly, looking up at his mother.

“Why didn’t you answer our calls?”  Winifred asked, smoothing his hair back from his face.  Bucky watched her, longing to speak.  But his throat was dry and his tongue barren, and tears welled in his eyes as he buried his face into her touch. 

“Help him up, Winifred, I’ll see if I can find something for him in the kitchen,” George said, before disappearing.  It took effort, and the help of Rebecca, but they were able to sit Bucky upright, leaning against some cushions.  His head rushed and he felt dizzy for a moment, needing to blink a few times and breathe slowly to settle his equilibrium.

 “Jamie, do you have any idea how long it’s been?”  Rebecca asked.  Bucky shook his head slowly.  “It’s December tenth.  It’s been almost two weeks.” 


	54. Chapter 54

His parents packed a bag with a few sets of clothes and his bathroom essentials before they took him out of his apartment and to their own home.

A part of him wanted to protest, to voice his distaste for going back to the place where everything fell apart.  He wanted to shake his head, to say loud and clear _No, I don’t want to go back there.  Please, don’t make me go back._ But his words were lost, and other than what he hoped to be a clear look to his mother at his distress, there was little he could do.  To speak seemed foreign, and his tongue still felt dry and cracked inside of his mouth.

That they were even able to get him to stand and walk, though with effort, was something to behold in the first place.  And the look the woman gave them as they walked carefully through the lobby was one that would, no doubt, be forever imprinted into Bucky’s mind.  Brows furrowed, lips pursed, but eyes clear and hopeful.  Compassionate.  He hated to admit to himself that he felt embarrassed.  He couldn’t look at her.

The car ride was quiet and short, but that could have been for a number of reasons; his father was speeding a little, and his mother and sister both had their heads turned out to watch the streets roll by, though Rebecca’s fingers did not once unlace from Bucky’s.  The silence, though, didn’t disturb him.  It was nice.  It was safe, and comfortable.

Unfortunately, it left him with his own painful thoughts.

To know that two weeks had gone by both horrified and hardly surprised him; he could recount other such times in his life shortly after being released from confinement where he would come to his senses and several days had passed since he last remembered acknowledging time.  It was something that Sam, early on, had tried to get Bucky to challenge, to become more aware of his part in existence and not let it slip by so easily. 

Sam…  He’d missed a call from Sam some time ago.  He still hadn’t returned it.

On the one hand, Bucky couldn’t bring himself to care—about Sam, about the fact that two weeks had disappeared, that it had _been_ two weeks since everything, about Natasha or Steve…  Everything had become so muted, so stamped down and quieted and hushed that it was easy to ignore it.  He could remember waking and screaming in agony and anguish because the one thing that had been holding him together, that had been making him happy, that had been helping him feel home and safe and secure, was gone…  But right now, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Deep down though, beneath those layers, those walls, that hurt, he was still screaming.  On that other hand were the feelings he was suppressing by ignoring reality, by allowing himself to slip into that status of distant, isolated, and withdrawn.  Below the pain and the hurt were tendrils of anger and sadness, memories of touches that set his skin on fire, words that had been pressed to his lips, hands that had been tender, arms that had been supportive.  And it was hard to distinguish to whom these pieces and words and voices belonged to but he knew that they were entangled and so important.

But they were gone.  He was gone.  She hadn’t done much more than him.

_Have I been better?  No._   _Have I pushed them away?  Probably.  Don’t they deserve it, though?_

Bucky swallowed, blinking slowly as he stared hard out the window.

_No, they don’t_.

It was as if he blinked and they were pulling into the front of the house; the trim the same and the grass neatly cut, and it was like stepping back into a dream.  Bucky shivered lightly, before feeling a squeeze around his fingers.  He looked over to see Rebecca, smiling faintly, before she let go and stepped out.  His door opened, and he unbuckled his seatbelt.

His mother helped him inside after discovering that his legs had difficulty working—two weeks without much in the way of food or water would do that to a person, she’d said, doing her best not to chastise.  She’d let him collapse against the couch, where he promptly eased his feet from his shoes and curled up, tucking his head against the arm as she disappeared into the kitchen. 

Rebecca and their father emerged in the doorway, Bucky’s bag in tow as his mother came back with a bottle of water and some soup.  They’d managed to find some semi-stale crackers and, surprisingly, not-moldy cheese back at his apartment, but had been unsuccessful in getting him to eat more than a small handful of either.  After a few minutes, and some quiet rustling in the kitchen, Winifred came back and set a bowl of soup on the table before pulling it closer to him.

“Come on, James,” she said, “sit up and eat.”

He grumbled, weakly.

“Don’t give me that.  You’re going to sit up and eat.  And we’re going to work through this together.”

The urge to shy away grew, but he clenched his jaw, and sat up slowly.

Taking the bowl of soup into his left hand, Bucky grabbed the spoon with his right to sip slowly.  The warmth eased the aches and pains of tension and hunger little by little, and when half the bowl was gone he was relaxed.  Rebecca had taken residence beside him on the couch while his parents had pulled up chairs opposite of the table.

They let him finish the soup and start on the water before beginning.  “What happened, exactly, between you and Steve?”  Winifred asked, her voice soft and even.

Bucky swallowed the water, easing his heartbeat with a deep breath.  “We…  I…”  he trailed off.  He wanted to say Steve overreacted, that Steve had misunderstood his position and what was happening, that it was all Steve’s fault—but he knew that was a lie.  He _knew_ better than to dump it all on Steve.  They’d both failed each other. 

Sighing, he tried again.  “We didn’t… communicate very well.  We never really established _what_ we were.  And we never talked about how to approach the topic of his work should it ever come up.  And… and he just wanted to be honest, and I was afraid you would think badly of him—and me.  I’d, uh…  I’d already been on edge and I was just so afraid of screwing up that I did _exactly_ that.  I screwed up.  He did, too.  But—it was _both_ of us.”

“I remember he was trying to be somewhat delicate,” George commented, folding his hands in front of him, “saying things like working for an off-shoot of the film industry and whatnot.  Was he upset with your reaction?  Did you tell him about how you felt?”

Bucky swallowed and nodded, his throat feeling tight.  “Yeah.  He… kinda forced it out of me, but I was being stubborn.  I was angry.  I was hurt.  I was scared.  I still am all of those, but I…”  He blinked back tears.  “I _know_ it’s not just Steve’s fault but god _damn_ it would be so easy to just say it was.  It might make him—him leaving _feel_ easier, but I…  I don’t think it would.”

“No,” Winifred said slowly, “it wouldn’t.  And, truthfully, it’s really quite impressive that you’re working so hard to acknowledge that he’s not the only one to blame.  Because it would be easy to put it all on the person who hurt you.”

Bucky nodded, chewing lightly on his lip.  He _wanted_ to blame Steve.  He _wanted_ to blame Natasha.  He _wanted_ to take the defensive, be angry and sad and hiss at others.  But, for the love of fuck, he just _couldn’t_.  His heart hurt too much and the memory of salt in his mouth from tears and from screaming was just too much to know that he was _just as much at fault for this_ as they were.

“He just wanted… to be honest.  And I made him feel like I was ashamed. And Nat—Nat was just… she was trying to just get it out there and over with.  And I’m angry that he’s gone and I’m angry that she hasn’t really done more but I haven’t either, and I can’t be _that_ much of a hypocritical, selfish child…”  Bucky trailed off, tears stinging his eyes.  Rebecca scooted closer and wrapped an arm around him.

Across the way, George shifted in his seat.  “I understand you were worried.  And I’m sorry you felt that way to begin with.  I’m sorry for making you feel like your relationship with Steve wasn’t wanted here, or accepted or supported.  That’s something I can’t take back, but by God I wish I could.”

Sniffling, Bucky shook his head, “It’s okay, Pa—”

“No, it’s not,” George said, voice stern.  Bucky raised his gaze, staring at his father, “I treated you like something so important to your life wasn’t welcome.  I made you feel like you had to impress a specific standard, and that meant being dishonest and afraid.  It cost you people you care for deeply, and I am so ashamed that I was part of that.  You’ve been gone, James, for six years, and these last two weeks have been hell because I was afraid I’d lost you all over again.  And I would have hated myself knowing that you’d spiraled and lost someone you clearly care for because of the way I reacted.”

Bucky’s father had never been a sentimental man, had never been one to express himself too openly.  Whether a mark of military service or his own nature, Bucky couldn’t remember anymore to tell the difference.  Regardless, to hear his father speak so plainly and with such emotion that tears were welling in his eyes caught Bucky off guard.  His heart thrummed harder with each second, but George’s eyes did not waver from Bucky, did not break contact or seriousness even as tears started rolling.

“Pa…”  Bucky whispered.

“I am so sorry.”  George said, clenching his jaw.

Bucky couldn’t say anything, knowing that trying to say it was okay would only result in George shaking his head and saying it wasn’t.  Winifred reached over and took George’s hand, giving his knuckles a soft kiss.

“I forgive you,” Bucky said.

“Jamie,” Rebecca chimed in after a moment, “have you talked to Nat or Steve lately?  Maybe see about telling them this?”

Bucky shook his head, chuckling weakly.  “Honestly, the fact that I’m even eloquently expressing myself right now is kind of amazing.”

Rebecca’s brows knit together, and she frowned, “At least talk to Nat?  I mean, you should talk to Steve, too, but I suppose I can understand if you don’t want to just yet.  Yeah, you admitted that you were both wrong, but he ended it, and maybe he needs time, too.  But Nat’s worried.”

He didn’t need Rebecca saying anything to know that, but he nodded slowly.  _I really fucked this up… so did they. We all had a hand_.

“I know,” he started, “I just…  I can’t promise anything.  I may wake up tomorrow catatonic, or I may be angry.  I feel—I feel like things are disconnected and something could just…”  Trailing off, Bucky sighed, lowering his head.

“Take a few days here,” Winifred eased, “allow yourself to get better, clear your head.  We can continue to talk through this, and we will help you when it gets rough.  Okay?”

Bucky smiled, and nodded slowly.  “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a favorite overall, but it's necessary. Expect the next few to be, almost, all over. He's trying to get better, but likely will not always resort back to such progressive places. It's all part of recovery.
> 
> Also Mumford and Sons is perfect for this series of chapters ;P


	55. Chapter 55

Time became a strangely irrelevant thing to Bucky Barnes in the days following his family’s intervention.  He was aware of the passing of it, of the concept of it, the change in tone, the darkening of days as the year drew closer to an end.  But it held little meaning to him; a minute felt as long as an hour, and a day as short as a second.  Perhaps it was chocked up to the heartache, or maybe it was the lack of mobility he gave effort to beyond moving back and forth from his old room, to the bathroom, to the kitchen, and back again.

If not for his cellphone, he might have been entirely oblivious to the number of passing days all together, yet the device kept him ever present to the date; helpfully displayed on the home screen, Bucky watched as the eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth rolled by, and the clock ticked and midnight came for the eighteenth of December.  He sighed softly, setting it aside before rolling onto his back once more.  He was undecided whether to be sleepless or restless from nightmares was worse.

He might have felt bad for how little he reached out beyond his family, might have once even gone out of his way to respond to some of the calls and texts he received, but he didn’t.  There was really only one that he was waiting on, and it hadn’t come back yet (he hadn’t forgotten the missed call sans voicemail, though).  Natasha called or texted almost daily, expressing her regrets for her actions, sharing some quick anecdote about her day or work, as well as mentioning that she missed him dearly, _and please, I know you’re probably still upset and rightfully so, but I am worried, James.  Please, call me._

Her messages always pulled a little too hard at his heart, even if his throat clenched and his fingers locked the screen before he could will himself to call her back.

The second time Sam called, Bucky managed to sit upright and answer it, mulling over an apology of having not reached him sooner before briefly explaining that some personal matters had come up suddenly, leaving him indisposed.  They arranged for a time to meet where they could talk about what had happened during their last meeting; Sam made it clear that if, for whatever reason, Bucky needed to cancel or set up another time it was perfectly acceptable, and he would be there for Bucky when he was needed.

_I—I really appreciate that, Sam.  Thank you_.

_You’re welcome, Bucky.  Take the time you need, and I’ll see you soon_.

Admittedly, Bucky wasn’t entirely certain how their meeting would go down, if it would end up like the train wreck of their previous one or if it would turn our better.  He had to hope for the latter, but that did not stop him from making a note to prepare for the former, if necessary.  Sam was a good man, and Bucky had given enough thought to understand that as a veteran’s therapist the man had to maintain a specific standard for his work.  He could not fault Sam for being true to his work and his instincts.

Besides, if Thanksgiving had anything to prove, it was that Sam was right all along.

That, certainly, didn’t make it easier to handle by any means, but it was easier to move forward recognizing and accepting that he wasn’t ready than to blindly fight and wail like a child. 

Another breath passed Bucky’s lips and a quiet rap came at the door of his room.  He shifted, humming softly before the door creaked open.  The slight shadow against the faint hall light indicated that his dear little sister was still awake, and her near-silent footsteps on the carpet reminded him fondly of their childhood.

“Can’t sleep?”  She whispered, and Bucky grunted quietly again.  She crept across the floor, sliding in at the foot of his bed, tucking herself beside his blanketed feet.  In the dark, he could feel her eyes on him.  “Are you doing okay, Jamie?”

He considered her question, and while there may have been an obvious answer, Bucky couldn’t quite determine if it was that simple anymore.  “I don’t know,” he said, voice hushed and sounded like he’d swallowed gravel recently. 

“There’s nothing wrong with not knowing, you know,” Rebecca mused, shifting again at his feet, “We can’t always have an exact answer for everything, right?”

“I guess,” Bucky trailed off, biting his lip gently as he rolled onto his left side, curling towards her just a little, “I know.. how I _should_ feel, I think.  But I just… I don’t.”

“How do you think you should feel?”  He breathed slowly.

“Angry.  Hurt.  Bitter?  I don’t know, I…?  I just don’t.  I mean, I feel hurt.  And maybe there’s a.. a tiny part of me that feels angry, but overall I just…  I think I just feel sad.”

Rebecca’s silence didn’t bother him, but after a moment it began to pull at him, and he wondered too deeply what she was thinking.  He chewed his lips again, tucking his arm under his pillow, propping himself up a little more.  In the dark, he could faintly make out her silhouette.

“I think that’s totally reasonable,” she agreed, “You want to lash out and take it out on the other person, or other people involved, but even that seems too much.  I mean, you said yourself the other night that you know you had a hand in what happened between you and Steve.  But do you honestly feel that way?  No.  There are going to be times where you feel like one person is more at fault than another, and sometimes that may be you more than Steve, or Natasha.  And other times it may feel like you’re the victim hands down, no questions asked.”

He didn’t want to admit that he did sometimes feel like that, but a part of him suspected that Rebecca already knew that.

“Regardless,” she continued, “knowing how you _should_ feel and how you _actually_ feel are completely different, and that’s okay.  No one knows you better than yourself.  Not even Steve.”

“Sometimes I wonder…”  Bucky sighed, letting his eyes close for a moment.  Rebecca hummed in the darkness, her hand finding his leg beneath the blankets.  She let it rest there, warm and comforting.

“I can’t speak for either of you—I have very limited knowledge of Steve, but from what I saw of him, he seems like a guy who cares deeply and maybe too much.  And I know you care, too, Jamie.  And maybe there was just a misunderstanding over how much the two of you actually care for one another.”

“I’ve always told him how much he means to me though, how much I appreciate him,” Bucky interjected, frowning softly. 

“I also know you had this awful habit of thinking a lot and never quite saying it out loud, Jamie,” Rebecca quipped.  “You always have so much to say, but it never quite comes out in the open quite like you think it does.”

Bucky’s frown deepened, a twist in his stomach pulling his thoughts into a growing spiral of concern and worry.  Had he really not vocalized his feelings, or made it clearly known to Steve what their relationship meant to them?  He thought…  No, he had.  He had to have…

But then what of his meltdown in front of Steve of what they were?  What of the look on Steve’s face when he said _partner_ and not _boyfriend_.  What of the times he felt the grip on his heart and the heat in his stomach at the way Steve looked at him and he thought that it had to be _so obvious on his face how he felt_.  How it had to be so blatantly clear in the way he kissed Steve, held onto him during moments of intimacy, how he always smiled with Steve, how every moment with Steve just felt like heaven—

Every moment.

And what of the moments without Steve?  Did those moments feel okay, too?  Or were they just a little darker, just a little… less?  Had he thought he said it all when in reality he hadn’t?  Had he become so dependent on putting every ounce of good and warmth in the hours and days spent with Steve that he couldn’t save some for when they were apart?  Was that why this hurt so damn much? 

Clenching his jaw, Bucky turned his head and buried his face into the pillow, breathing slowly.  He felt… completely and utterly foolish, and sad—unsurprising, as such toxically invasive emotions could be.  But he also could feel that stirring heat of regret and shame—more so that he had done this to himself, to Steve, to his family; that he’d come home so wrecked and tormented and turned his recovery into a means of imprinting and depending on others for emotional and mental support and sustainability.

_Fuck this_.  He wanted to cry. 

“Hey,” Rebecca’s voice lulled him from his thoughts, “where’re you at, big brother?”

“Here,” he moaned, voice aching as he swallowed.

“No, you’re not,” she mused, “you’re a thousand miles away.  Talk to me.”

Bucky breathed, licking his lips slowly.  “I just…  I feel so stupid?”

“Why?”

“Because I…  I went away, and when I finally came home, I wasn’t me.  I was cold, and I was hurt, and everything made me scared and on edge.  And I have this…  this gift walk into my life that makes things a little less scary, and now everything is fucking terrifying without him and I feel stupid for having done that to him and me.”

Rebecca’s smile was obscured, but Bucky could hear it in her voice.  “That’s not stupid, Jamie.  That’s called love.”

“That’s called token savior, but okay,” Bucky mumbled, and Rebecca’s laugh was enough to make him smile.

“Call it what you want, big brother,” she said, leaning in to find his forehead and kiss it, “but I think, come morning, you should go on a walk.  Clear your head.  Give yourself an opportunity to move on from this.  And call him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, and the next few, were discussed at length with the ever wonderful and brilliant OhCaptainMyCaptain1918 (details and unfolding of events may vary, but she is as intimately aware of the happenings as I am, and has played a major hand in their development, and without her I would be utterly lost). 
> 
> I apologize for the disappearance this last month. Between finals, graduating, getting sick, and a few other endeavors (such as being so uninspired I actually debated calling it quits on this piece), I just couldn't bring myself to do much more than play video games and work. I can't promise when the next one will be, but hopefully sooner than another month. <3
> 
> Also, I know many of you had some disagreeing opinions with the last few chapters, and I've considered your criticism deeply (seriously ask Cap, she was first and full witness to my unending waves of doubt and debate). Consider, if you will, that these characters are not perfect; they are charming, and they are naive, and they make mistakes, and they behave in ways we might not often expect or consider in "character". Additionally, most stories are conducted in biased perspectives (this one being in the point of view of Bucky, who is perceiving the world around him from a lens of PTSD-veteran), and biased perspectives means that we really only are witness to one aspect of the story. 
> 
> I am eternally grateful to the criticism, to those of you who are engaged and asking questions and raising doubts or concerns or praise for one character or another. It is so rewarding that my work is making you think and making you want to understand and say "Now wait, how does that make sense in this context?" It might have seemed rash or irrational or unfair, but the beauty of stories is that they're never really over until all the pieces are connected. We are still missing some pieces, but they'll come together soon.


	56. Chapter 56

Per his sister’s request, when Bucky awoke—just before seven, damn it all—he pulled himself out of bed, dressed warmly, and went out on a walk.

Snow had begun falling, and was collecting on the sidewalk and streets in light, fluffy layers.  It must have started overnight, or perhaps sooner, for Bucky was able to crunch his way through it, leaving distinguished prints in his wake.  He pulled his coat tighter around himself, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he trekked through the snow, keeping his head low.  The scarf tucked around his neck and ears provided only just enough of a barrier between his skin and the cold, and all the while he told himself _this is nothing, this isn’t cold_.

The sun had not even raised itself above the distant city line and through the smear of clouds before Bucky felt his phone buzzing quietly beneath his fingers.  Reluctantly, he withdrew his palm from the warmth, bringing the device with it to see, right on time, Natasha’s name light up on the screen.  Sighing quietly, Bucky swiped it, accepting the call.  He stared, watching the numbers—00:01…00:02…—before bringing it to his ear.

“Morning,” he said softly, walking along still.  For a moment, Natasha was silent, but when she spoke her voice was quiet, almost shocked.

“James,” but a whisper, and still it tugged him, “I…  I wasn’t expecting you to answer, honestly.”

“What’s up, Nat?”  He decided against responding to her comment.  No need to pull a weak thread attempting to hold them together.

“The sun?  Almost?  What are you doing awake?”  He huffed softly, biting back a small smile.

“You know I don’t sleep great,” he insisted, switching the phone into his left hand to shove his right back into the warmth of his pocket, “last night was no exception.”

“I’m sorry,” said Natasha, her tone gentle, “I suppose with everything that’s happened I expected you to be sleeping more.  If I were in your position, that’s what I would be doing.”

“Well, you’re not,” he might have regretted being so blunt, but something had been festering inside of him, itching to be free, needing to be _honest_.  And if Rebecca’s words rang true, that he often kept what he wanted to say to himself too much, then he needed to fight that habit.  Even if it hurt a little.  “And while sleep is nice, sometimes it isn’t.  So I’m awake, and I’m walking.”

“To where?”

“Does it matter?  I like walking.”  Another silence.  Bucky could almost hear her swallowing on the other end.

“James, look, I…  I know I fucked up.  Badly.  I know Steve said things that hurt, and I know maybe you did, too.  But I know we both wronged you.  And… fuck, James, it’s been three weeks since either of us saw or talked to you.  I had to hear from your sister that you were even alive.”

“Of course I’m alive,” Bucky interjected, biting the inside of his cheek.

“You know what I mean,” Natasha pressed, “She told me that she and your parents found you in your apartment despondent and virtually unresponsive.  Do you have any idea how scared I was?  Becca, bless her heart, let me know you were okay and doing better, but I shouldn’t have had to hear that from your sister.”

“My family shouldn’t’ve had to hear of my boyfriend and best friend’s career in the way they did, Natalia.  But shit don’t always work out in our favor.”  Bucky snapped, clenching his jaw as he stopped on the sidewalk.  He didn’t want to be angry, but he was.  Natasha meant well, and he knew he should have reached out to her sooner, but her guilt-trip regarding his mental and emotional well-being was too much.

Natasha hesitated, and Bucky heard a long, labored sigh.  She sounded exhausted.  “I know.  And I kick myself for that every day, James, I really do.  That should have been your conversation with your family.  But it was a messy situation.”

“Yes, it was,” Bucky agreed, kicking at a frost-covered rock.  “I didn’t exactly make everything better by stammering around everyone’s questions, but… damnit, I didn’t know what to do.  I just wanted… I just wanted one thing to be right, and comfortable, and good, and I didn’t know what to do, okay?  I panicked.  I freaked out, and then you said what you said and Steve was pissed and I got scared and everything went to hell.  It was a fucking horrendous situation, and I’ve been to hell and back with how I feel about it.”

Not so surprisingly, Bucky felt like crying.  He could feel the sting of tears in the corners of his eyes, the warmth that was threatening to well and spill forth.  His heart thudded lightly beneath the layers of his coat and scarf and sweater, and his lungs were aching, and his throat felt dry in the crisp December air, but his skin felt like fire.  He wiped at his eyes with the back of his sleeve before smashing his hand back into his pocket again.

Natasha sighed on her end.  Bucky bit down on his tongue, willing the pounding in his ears to go away, the darkening edges at his vision to cease, the need to curl up and scream because _he panicked and Steve left and he just wanted him back for Christ’s sake_.  But it was that thought, that desire of wanting Steve back to make it right, to make everything perfect, _every moment happy_ made him choke that sugary sweet need like cough medicine.  He wanted Steve and Natasha back, and he wanted things to be right.  But he wanted to be better, first.

“I am so sorry,” Natasha finally whispered after several moments, “I really…  I am, James.  None of us really handled that day well, and I have no excuses for myself, or for Steve.  I can’t speak for him, and I won’t try to.  For me…  I think I just wanted it out there and open and honest for myself, and that was so selfish of me.  For years I’ve been hearing others dance around what I do and I think I just got… wrapped up in myself.  I didn’t think.  And I’m sorry.”

Bucky licked his lips, shuffling in the snow, shaking a few flakes off of his coat before inhaling deeply.  “I forgive you,” he mumbled.  It wasn’t okay.  But it would be, eventually.  And he had to forgive her.  She was just trying to be honest, trying to do right by the three of them.  Things had turned out for the better with his family, and now they had to be better for the three of them.

“Thank you, James,” Natasha breathed, and the relief in her voice almost made him smile.  “Have you… talked to him, yet?”

“No,” the simplicity of his own answer made his heart ache, “He called… once.. weeks ago, around the first few times you did, right after everything happened.  He didn’t leave a voice mail or anything.  Hasn’t called, or texted, or anything since.  In fairness, I haven’t reached out either.”

“You’re not alone,” she eased, “we haven’t talked much either since it happened.  He’s been… weirdly invested in work, doing, I think, like a new project every few days or so.  Maybe trying to get his mind off of everything?  I don’t know.  But I know he’s not happy.  I don’t even need to know him as long as I do to know that.”

The truth—even a small piece of it—of Steve’s present state might have once given some sort of comfort or closure to Bucky.  But the knowledge that he was unhappy, that he was potentially hurting, or throwing himself so much into work as a distraction just made everything twist further.  To know that he wasn’t really speaking to anyone who cared about him, and he was doing whatever he could to _not think about what happened_ just…

It hurt.  It hurt more than Bucky could describe.

Breathing slowly, Bucky continued his slog through the snowy street, turning a corner and rounding back to head home.  There would come a time where he would need to answer Steve, if Steve ever called back.  Or to reach out himself, whichever came first.  But there would come a moment where they would need to talk.  And he would need to finally say the things that needed to be said aloud. 

Even if it hurt.

“Keep me posted if anything changes?”  He asked.

“You know I will.  And… thank you, again, James.  For answering.”

“You’re welcome, Natalia.  I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay.  Stay warm, James.”  He smiled.

“You too.”  End call.

Sighing heavily, Bucky pocketed his phone against as he kicked his boots through the snow.  The sun had started peeking through the clouds and city skyline, casting shadows along the ground.  The air was still cold enough to keep the light from melting the snow, and with a churning darkness coming from the north, Bucky could only assume that the cold would continue to thicken, much like the snow on the ground and in the air. 

Burrowing deeper into his coat, he shoved his nose down into his scarf, doing everything possible to stave off the chill now that the fire that had been coursing through him had abated.  The little bit of sweat that had gathered in his hairline was sending chills down his spine, and he quickened his pace to head home. 

It wasn’t that this cold was anything to compare to Russia—hardly, if at all.  But the idea of being out in the cold, of feeling the ice touching along his skin, the snowflakes settling onto his eyelashes made it just a little too hard to breathe.  And while he could feel his phone buzzing quietly against his fingers, he elected to ignore it this time.  Better to let it go to voicemail and respond when he was warm and comfortable than lose his focus now.  This cold was nothing, but he didn’t exactly want to tempt fate either.

Still, the longer the phone vibrated against his fingers, the more his curiosity tugged at him.  It was not often that it would go so long before the caller hung up, or it went to voicemail. Frowning behind his scarf, Bucky came to an intersection, and retrieved his phone while waiting for the cross signal.  Tapping the screen, it came to life, and the world around melted away.

_Steve Rogers_.

What were the fucking chances?

This had to have been the fourth or fifth buzz by now.  Any more after and it would go to voicemail.

_Steve Rogers_ , and that damned beautiful picture—

_Answer it.  Now is your fucking chance, answer it._

_What are you doing_.

A snowflake landed on his phone.  Unaware to Bucky, the signal changed across the street.

_What are you doing, Bucky?  Answer your phone, answer your damn phone.  Why aren’t you answering?  Just swipe your fucking finger already._

The snowflake melted against the screen, weirdly magnifying part of Steve’s name.  Warping it, almost as if it weren’t quite real.

_Missed call: Steve Rogers_.

His heart pounded, his head swimming.  Why didn’t he—he was just talking to Natasha about this not even ten minutes prior. 

His fingers curled tighter around his phone, his throat closing as he resigned to put it away, and put the moment from his mind when—

_Buzz_.  He looked.

_New voicemail: Steve Rogers_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the next chapter are heavily inspired by a conversation with OhCaptainMyCaptain1918. In fact, much of Bucky's inner monologue at the end of this chapter and through the next are thanks of Cap, who knows these fools far better than I do. <3


	57. Chapter 57

A long silence, steady, if not uncertain.  A breath, shaky, soft, hesitant.  Silence again—the calm before the storm?  The moment was long, heavy, thickening with each passing moment.  Bucky waited, his heart inching its way into his throat little by little as the quiet grew, and the breath expelled itself into a long, labored, reclusive sigh.  Another few moments, another stretch of silence, and _why wasn’t he saying anything?  Maybe it might’ve been a pocket-dial but that breath is too close and too sad_ …

He could almost hear Steve swallowing, a quiet sniffle, before the call disconnected and the voicemail ended.

He played it again.

And again.

And again.

Nothing about it changed.  He could count the seconds between the first breath, the pause, the exhale, the sniffle, the end.  The whole thing lasted less than eleven seconds.  But it was eleven seconds that Bucky played over and over and each time he pressed _play_ again, his heart pounded just a little harder, crept just a little higher into his throat until he couldn’t stand it a moment more because the breathing came too shallowly and his vision too blurry.

Pressing the top edge of the phone to his forehead, Bucky breathed slowly and deeply between his teeth.  The cold air nipped at his ears and the back of his neck, licking at exposed skin and sending chills down his spine.  But he felt hot, and hurt, his insides wrangling themselves into knots that seemed only to twist tighter with each breath that he took.  He clenched his jaw, swallowing the choke and mixed thoughts before locking the screen and pocketing his phone once more.

He needed to go home.  He needed—he…

He needed Steve.

And it was so inconvenient the way his thoughts flooded as he forced his feet to move, his legs to carry him, one step at a time—left, right, left, right…  Half of him was consciously commanding his body to work while the other was thinking of Steve leaving that voicemail.  Was he crying?  Did that mean he was upset?  Was he hurt?  Did he miss Bucky as much as Bucky missed him?  Where was he?  Was he at home, curled up on his couch and staring at his phone?  Did he often go through the text messages that they’d sent one another, look at the photos they’d passed?  Did he smile at the sillier moments they’d shared? 

Swallowing thickly, Bucky nearly tripped over a rock that had become covered in snow.  He smeared his sleeve against his eyes, burrowing his face down into his scarf before walking just a little faster.

Did Steve wake up restless when the dreams were too much?  Did he have nightmares?  Did he ever have moments where he would lose track of himself and get lost in a memory, only to come back from it and realize that things were not the way they were?  That they’d gone three weeks now and it felt like hell and a half?  Did he raid his fridge and find a bottle of coffee creamer that reduced him to tears?

But that voicemail—that silence was too much to ignore…

A hot, prickling fire began to sizzle beneath Bucky’s coat, flaming across his chest and sinking like claws down into his lungs.  He coughed behind his scarf, thankful that as he rounded a corner he could see his parent’s home just in view.  A breeze swept across the back of his neck, just above the wool, and he trembled again. 

This was…

This was utterly ridiculous.

Bucky pressed himself to the door of the house, panting heavily behind his scarf before twisting the knob and slipping inside.  Warm, dry air cocooned him and kissed his face, and he gasped softly.  The door closed and he slumped against it, his knees shaking.  His hands trembled in his pockets as a mantra of _does he miss me, does he care, why didn’t he say anything, why didn’t I answer_ spilled and tumbled in circles behind his eyelids.

Rebecca was the first to his side, her brows knit, eyes hard.  “Jamie?  Jamie, what’s wrong?  Talk to me..”

“Cold,” Bucky stammered, letting Rebecca link an arm around him, leading him away from the door and towards the couch closest to the heater.  He collapsed into it, curling into the arm, fingers seeking purchase into the cushions and away from the brick that was his phone in his left pocket.  “Cold, cold… S-Steve…”

“What about Steve?”

“…called..”

“He called?”  Rebecca asked, and Bucky nodded slowly.  Chills danced as cold sweat gathered along his hairline.  This was ridiculous.  Footsteps came around from the hallway.

“What did he say?”  Rebecca pressed, smoothing his hair from his face.  Bucky shook his head.  “He didn’t say anything?”

Bucky shook his head again.  “Didn’t answer.”  His voice was meek, the words tripping over his chattering teeth.  The heat was beginning to seep into his bones, and his shoulders relaxed.

“Did he leave a voicemail?”  This time it was Winifred who spoke.  Bucky’s head nodded once, and the tremors in his legs slowed.  He sighed heavily.

“It’s okay, hey… hey, shh,” Rebecca whispered, wiping away the sweat from Bucky’s skin.  “You’re alright, big brother.  You’re here.  Pa—can you get him some tea or something?  Here, lemme get your coat off, it’s covered in snow.”

Rebecca hands were nimble as she helped Bucky shrug out of his coat and scarf.  The panic that had flushed in like a wave was melting away as easily as the snow from his coat, and Bucky let out another long sigh as Winifred sat beside him.  Her hands were soft, gently caressing his hair before turning him to fold him into an embrace. 

She said nothing, only rocked him back and forth as Bucky’s last shakes abated, and his heartbeat evened out.  He might have felt embarrassed, and perhaps once that might have been the only way he could have felt.  But as his mother’s hands traced circles against his back, Bucky swallowed the what-once-would-have-been’s before clenching his jaw tightly. 

George came back around with a mug of tea, and Bucky shifted against his mother to properly turn and accept it, letting the warmth pool into his fingers and palm as he took a slow sip.  Slightly bitter, but it was comforting, and the warmth was the greater necessity.  Winifred’s fingers combed through his hair as he drank.

He took his time with his tea, letting the circles that his mother was drawing against his scalp ease the last of his stress to the back of his mind as the tea warmed his tongue and throat.  His heart and his lungs were still aching though, throbbing with thin layers of ice and hurt clinging like a plague.  And it bothered him, this sensation of cold and pain still lingering within him; he knew it was more from the reaction, the voicemail, than the cold outside.  And _that_ … that was the problem.

He had become catatonic, and angry, and indifferent, and depressed all at once.  And a voicemail that contained barely more than a few breaths had reduced him to… well… to a place he’d worked so hard to get out of.  Before Steve, before things had become so warm, so familiar, so intimate and beautiful, when had he last felt so hopeless and needy?  When had he felt so utterly lost and desperate?

Bucky had thought—well, more like _hoped_ —that talking to Rebecca, talking to Natasha, making plans with Sam to meet that it was a sign of progress.  The sleep and the nightmares and the cold no doubt would always be with him, much like many other things that had changed about his life.  But when he’d walked out the door that morning, he felt almost _okay_.  And then a missed call and an eleven second voicemail came along and suddenly everything became so _not_ okay.  And that—that was _not_ …fair.

It wasn’t fair.  It wasn’t fair how he treated Steve—it wasn’t fair how Steve had treated him.  It wasn’t fair for Natasha to step in.  It wasn’t fair for Bucky to have lashed out at Sam.  It wasn’t fair that Bucky had felt so wrapped up and uncertain about what he and Steve even were and that it took swapping tags to feel a semblance of wholeness.  As though having that _physical_ piece of Steve _always_ with him was what he needed…

It wasn’t fair…  He’d said it himself, to Rebecca: Steve had come into his life and made everything just a little less frightening, just a little more beautiful, just a little more right, and now that he wasn’t in it, it was all horrible and dark and lonely and _that wasn’t fair_.  To Steve.  To himself…

Closing his eyes, Bucky tucked himself further into his mother’s arms, breathing slowly.  His heart _hurt_ and that just _wasn’t fucking fair_.  He wanted to feel miserable, and he also wanted to feel angry; he knew better, he knew he could _be_ better.  And he could still hear her words in the back of his mind—Natasha’s cool tone of _you would’ve recovered, gained a sense of autonomy… you could’ve given up but you didn’t.  Steve and I had nothing to do with that_ …

Hell… he didn’t flee Russia for this.

But… Bucky knew he’d do it all again.  For his family.  For the opportunity to meet Steve and Natasha.

And… more importantly for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, y'all.  
> Oh man.  
> That's all I gotta say.  
> (Forever again many thanks to my love, Cap. <3 I hope this is even slightly what you had in mind)


	58. Chapter 58

The next morning, Bucky rolled himself out of bed and into the shower, a plan already in motion in his mind to call Sam and bump their meeting up, if possible.  Then he would go and pay Gwen a visit, assure her that he was well, maybe even give Natasha a call and inform her of the events from the morning before. 

Then… well, then he wasn’t sure. 

The water had been warm, and he stayed in longer than he meant to.  But when he finally vacated the space, he towel dried his hair and tied it back before dressing simply and warmly.  He called Sam, arranged for the two of them to meet at the café, before asking to borrow the car from his parents to use for the day. 

It’d been a while since he’d last driven on his own, but the streets were clear save for the snow, and it gave him a chance to take it slow and steady to re-familiarize himself with everything.  Granted, on any other day he might have opted to request being given a ride, or even just walking.  But the feel of the steering wheel beneath his hands, the old calm that being in a car and taking himself places and doing things on his own was much more of what he needed than being chaperoned everything.

The snow had thickened overnight, but the tires paved the way through it easily enough.  He was cautious, mentally reminding himself to check his mirrors and give himself plenty of time to brake.  But he felt easy, and collected.  It was an opportunity to think of something—anything—else than what had been plaguing him for the worse part of the last three weeks.

And, truly, that was the most important thing.  For now.

Outside, the skies were dismal, and there were cars here and there towing Christmas trees and groups of friends and families.  Some had trunks and backseats so loaded with shopping that it was a wonder they could see through them at all.  Bucky, sitting in the safety of his mother’s car, felt a small twinge of something that was neither pleasant nor upsetting; this would be the first Christmas he would actually spend with his family.  And he knew he should feel happy—elated, even, at the prospect.  But it was bittersweet.  He had nothing for them; no gifts, no good memories from the last few years to share.  Not to mention, with things being the way they were, he wasn’t sure how to approach the possibility of inviting Natasha, Gwen, or Sam to Christmas dinner.

It was even harder to imagine inviting Steve.

Sighing, Bucky clenched his jaw and tilted his head side to side, rolling out his shoulders before gently accelerating on through the streets.  Heavy, dark clouds loomed above in the sky, trees rustling in a bristling wind that caught the lighter snowflakes from the tops of the trees and along the sidewalks, cascading them around in small flurries.  He might have thought it beautiful.  But today it felt only lonely.

He drove in silence, and when he came upon the street with the café, he eased towards the sidewalk and pulled in behind another car, leaving enough space to back out and leave later.  Turning the key, Bucky removed it with a quick slide before pocketing it in his coat.  Slipping out into the snow, he pulled his coat tighter around himself as he crossed the street, boots sifting and crunching through ice and snow alike.  Any colder and everything would start to freeze. 

Shivering lightly, he stepped up onto the sidewalk, before climbing the stairs to the café.  Easing through the door, the bell above chimed to announce his entrance.  Surprisingly, only a few tables and chairs were occupied, and the usual kid was working at the counter towards the back.  Looking through the dining, Bucky spotted Sam sitting in a corner—different from the usual spot, _not that he would’ve known.  He doesn’t know our table_ …

Shrugging out of his coat, Bucky crossed the space and took the seat across from Sam, who gave him a warm, tentative smile as Bucky situated himself.

“How are you today, Bucky?”  Sam’s voice was velvet, easy and gentle.  Bucky shrugged.

“I’m okay.  Cold, I suppose.”  Sam nodded slowly, taking a slow drink from the mug his fingers were wrapped around, before setting it down with a small _tink_ against the table.

“I’m glad you’re at least okay.  You didn’t say much the other day, but I got the impression that the last few weeks have been really hard for you,” said Sam.  Bucky gave him a once over, nodding slowly.  Sam’s shoulders were relaxed, eased back to be open and inviting.  No doubt to create as comfortable of a space as possible.  _Thank you_ …

“After our last—meeting, it’s been… it’s been pretty shitty, I won’t lie,” Bucky began, swallowing slowly as a cup of black coffee was set down in front of him.  He gave the kid a smile in thanks.  “I mean..  I wasn’t ready to hear what you had to say, and I don’t think I was ready at all for much of anything.  I went to Thanksgiving dinner at my parents’ place with Nat and Steve, and it started out okay, I guess.  I, uh… I had a hard time introducing them and it felt okay after that but…”

Sam waited, and Bucky swallowed the lump with a swig of coffee before clenching his teeth and licking his lips.  “I, just..  I wanted everything to be perfect, y’know?  I wanted it to be the picture perfect kinda Thanksgiving that everyone dreams of.  And it started out pretty good until my pa asked what Steve and Nat do for a living.”

“What did you, or they, say?”

“I panicked,” Bucky dropped his gaze to the table, remembering the choking feeling, the racing of his heart and the sweat that gathered in his hairline; the way Steve watched him; the way his father pressed; the breaking of the plate.  “I tried changing the subject left and right ‘cause I wasn’t sure how to handle it, or what my parents would think, and it got out of hand.  Natasha told them.  Steve and I went outside and we fought.”

“What happened when you fought?”  It wasn’t at all a question he wanted to answer.  But he breathed deeply, curling his hands around his coffee cup.  He wanted to do better, be better.  He had to start with this.

“He asked me why I kept avoiding the subject—I had been, I can’t deny that.  But I couldn’t explain, like, _why_ I was without it sounding like I was ashamed of him.  And I wanted so badly to prove that I wasn’t, that I wasn’t ashamed of his work.  And I know a part of me thinks and feels like I’m not—I’m.. I mean, if not for his work, if not for his films, I wouldn’t even know he existed. 

“And maybe,” he clenched the cup a little tighter, breathing slowly, “maybe I was ashamed.  Maybe I was too worried thinking about what my family might think.  I mean, in hindsight, we didn’t really talk about it.  It was never something we thought to talk about before going into that, so what could we have known?  I should’ve… shit, I dunno, I should’ve trusted Steve.  I should’ve trusted my family.  We should’ve talked about it.  But we didn’t.  So we fought, and we yelled, and we said shit we didn’t mean.  And Steve said he wanted a break…”

Bucky trailed off, the itching sting beginning to well in the corners of his eyes and he let out a long breath.  “And I didn’t try to stop him.  I let him walk away.”

The first tear fell and Bucky dipped his head, letting go of his mug lest he hold on too long or too hard.  The metal fingers of his left hand scraped across his forehead and he slid his palm over his eyes, breathing deeply as the second and third and fourth tears came.  “I… let him go.  All this time I’ve put so much—too much—on him, relied on him to be happy, and I let him go without fighting.  I got so cold and so selfish and I _let him_ walk away…”

“Bucky,” Sam said softly, reaching over to grip the back of his right hand.  His fingers were warm, pressing into his wrist.  “Listen to me.  You said it yourself.  You both said things you didn’t mean.  It was no doubt a horrible situation to be in.  But the best things in the world aren’t won easily.  They don’t come without struggle.”

Bucky shook his head, inhaling deeply as he dabbed at his face with his sleeve.  “I let myself fall apart, Sam,” he choked quietly.  “I didn’t speak to anyone.  I didn’t take care of myself.  I let him go and I made myself fucking miserable without him.”

“You were grieving,”

“Doesn’t matter, Sam.  You were right—I wasn’t ready.  I _relied_ on Steve to make everything okay and then I fell apart when I let him go.  I didn’t eat.  I slept like shit.  I still sleep like shit.  I still get anxious and feel myself shaking.  I’m still fucking terrified.  And it’s…” he gulped, trembling on a laugh as he shook his head, “it’s really hard to admit that.  To sit here and fight back everything that makes me scared and say that you were right and I was stupid.  But so was Steve?  I can’t put everything on him but I can’t take it all myself.”

Sam shook his head, smiling weakly.  “I need you to listen to me, just for a moment, okay?  You have fought through so much.  You’ve survived things no other ordinary man should dream of, let alone experience.  You’re hurting now, but you’re opening up to the knowledge that you can admit that you’re hurt, and you’re wanting to be better.  At our last meeting—I was wrong, Bucky.  I don’t have any good excuses for what happened, but I need you to know _I_ was in the wrong.  I made you feel like you’d be nothing more than a broken veteran for the rest of your life, and that’s not okay.

“You’re in a place that’s making you scared—but you’re _admitting_ that.  You’re saying you’re scared, and you’re opening yourself up to help.  And that’s so much more than you give it credit for.  Over a year ago, you wouldn’t be here with me like this.  And I am _so_ proud of you, for where you are, from where you’ve come.  You’re building your relationships with your family, and yeah, you’re struggling with someone you care about—but that’s _life_ , and you’re not running from it.  Not anymore.  And I am so sorry I ever let you feel like everything you’ve worked so hard for has been for nothing; I am so sorry I invalidated how far you’ve come based on things you can’t always control.  That was terrible practice of me, and I will never do it again.

“But this thing with Steve—this fight, this silence, this break up?  It’s going to be okay.  I—I try to live by an idea that once you hit rock bottom, your only option is up.  Right now, your rock bottom is this fight, this impasse between you and Steve.  Some might say you could bury it and move on—away from this, away from Steve—but I have a strong feeling you won’t.  You care too much, too deeply.  And from what I saw of him, he cares too.  More than you might think.”

Bucky watched him, searched his eyes and listened intently to the tone of his voice, and his heart warmed because he could see and hear that Sam _meant every word_.  And his words, the way he spoke of Steve, the _he cares—more than you might think_ … goddamn, he wanted to cry.  He clenched his jaw and looked down, nodding slowly.  Because Natasha had said that.  And Sam knew far less of Steve than Natasha did.  And he felt so… relieved.

Nodding again, Bucky turned his arm and took Sam’s hand in his own, giving the man a gentle squeeze.  Sam squeezed back, and Bucky looked up to see him smiling, a glittering of tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry this all happened to you,” Sam continued, sighing, “but if anyone has the will, the fight, to make it out and make it better, it’s you.”

“Thanks,” Bucky choked, smiling slightly as he wiped at his face again.  “Thank you, Sam.”

Sam nodded, smiling back.  “When you’re ready, I’d like you to come back for a few more sessions.  Right now I imagine you’ll want more time with your family, as Christmas is less than a week away.  But I’d like to hear more about any other troubles sleeping, any other attacks.  We’ll get through this.  I’ve already sent off your evaluation for approval, but I know how hard grief can hit, and how much it can linger.”

Bucky frowned, watching Sam closely.  “You sent my evaluation off?”

Sam smiled, “About a week ago, yeah.  I took a small liberty to look your file over with my boss, and we discussed your progress.  He felt you were ready.  I agreed.  He all but gave it the stamp then and there.”

Warmth filled his being, and Bucky lost his breath for a moment.  “Sam…” he let out a quiet laugh, “I… thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Bucky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets a little better <3  
> We're getting closer and closer to what everyone is waiting for. Question is, when? ;D   
> (also how many times can I refer to my notes from Cap and thank her before it's obnoxious? Oh, right, never! <3 ilybb)


	59. Chapter 59

He’d taken up a quiet space on the back patio of his parent’s house, sitting with his knees open, carefully easing his phone from one hand to the other.  Snow flurried around him in cool twists and waves, and his shoulders and legs were dusted faintly in white.  But he was bundled against the chill, and the focus he gave his phone kept him from worrying too much about anything else to begin with. 

Pursing his lips gently, Bucky twirled his phone, before pressing the home button at the bottom to bring up the screen.  Fully charged, and just past one in the afternoon, the damn thing lit with a photo he’d never been able to bring himself to change despite the events of nearly the last month: it was of him, Natasha, Sam, and Steve, just after their day of paintballing before parting ways.  The four of them had crammed into the frame for the shot, with Sam and Natasha on either side of him, and Steve behind Natasha, pressing a kiss to his hair.

Swallowing slowly, Bucky inhaled a cool, deep breath, before unlocking his screen.  It was a wonder he’d left it there, but considering that he’d also spent most of his time ignoring his phone it wasn’t extremely far-fetched.  Still, such things, those still stirring twinges of hurt, were not the forefront of his thoughts as he pressed on the phone-icon, going into his contacts.  Tabbing over to favorites, his eyes landed on Steve’s name at the top of the list.

His shoulders sank as he relaxed, the breath he’d taken in slowly passing between his lips.  His thumb hovered over the name, as though he were hesitant.  But Bucky blinked, and pushed aside any and all reservations, and tapped the screen.  Steve’s name came up large across the top of his screen, and Bucky brought the phone to his ear.  He had half expected himself to tense, his heart to race, his tongue to dry.  But his heart beat steadily, and his fingers did not tremble; his body didn’t shake, his throat didn’t close.  And he allowed a small smile to grace his lips as he curled tighter on himself for warmth, pressing the phone harder to his ear.

It rang, and rang.  And the third came, with a fourth just about to follow suit when a tiny _click_ emerged.  A moment of silence passed, and a hesitant “Hello?” sounded from the other end.  There was a tremble to the tone of Steve’s voice, and Bucky bit the inside of his cheek.

“Hey,” he said softly.  Another long silence and he could hear Steve swallowing.

“Bucky,” Steve breathed, the relief in his voice obvious.  “How are you?”

Bucky smiled, knowing it was probably the first thing Steve could think to say.  “I’m okay.  How are you?” 

“I,” Steve began, and it trailed, faltering, and Bucky’s brows knit together a little as Steve inhaled deeply, shakily, “I’m.. not great.  But I’m okay.” 

Bucky shifted, clutching at the front of his coat as he clenched his teeth.  “Are you free?”  He asked.  They could talk over the phone, and in some instances it might have been _easier_ to do so over the phone.  But that wasn’t even remotely close to what Bucky wanted.  And he could imagine that Steve, maybe, felt the same.

“Yes.  Always, for…”  Steve stopped, and sighed.  Bucky’s heart kicked.  “For you.”

“Meet me at the studio in an hour?”  He couldn’t linger on it.  It would be hard enough anyway.

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky had gotten there first, and had enclosed himself inside of the studio so as to keep out of the cold.  The floors echoed his footfalls, and his shadow traced along the lines of mirrors.  The lights were dimmed, and what came from the few windows to the front and the door was grey and cold.  It might have seemed an interesting or impractical setting—a dance studio with so many mirrors, such open space—but it was an important place for the both of them.  It was private without being too much, yet not so public that any emotion from either of them would stir concern or suspicion.

Crossing to the corner were a few folded chairs were tucked, Bucky retrieved two, dragging them away from the wall before setting them up.  He draped his coat over the back of one before taking a seat.  He laced his fingers together, arms resting along his thighs with his head bowed.  The metal was cool against his flesh, and he gave himself a few moments of silence and peace before hearing the rumble of a car outside.

Footsteps came up to the front door before softening.  The door clicked open, and a long shadow cast itself across the floor towards Bucky’s boot.  Lifting his head, he turned to see Steve’s silhouette against the backdrop of grey and snow.  Standing slowly, Bucky turned as Steve stepped inside, shaking snow out of his hair, and closing the door.

Bucky looked Steve over, his eyes tracing the length of his legs—adorned in fitted jeans—up along his torso—draped in a cool charcoal sweater and a black wool coat—and up to his face, before a barrier seemed to form within his throat.  Stubble lined Steve’s jaw and throat, heavy dark circles shadowing the under of his eyes.  His hair had darkened, the lightening having been washed out with time no doubt. 

But the blue, that had been so bright and so soft, had to mirror the sky and the ocean; darkening with the storm outside and within.  Bucky nearly gasped when theirs met, and any doubt, any question, any possibility that he might have once doubted how Steve could have felt about this entire mess was obliterated in that single instance.  And how many times had Natasha said it, had Rebecca said it, had he told himself that Steve was a man who _cared_ —perhaps _too much_.

“Steve,” Bucky mumbled, his jaw clenching tightly.

“Bucky,” Steve responded, even and quiet in his tone.  Bucky could see everything in Steve’s face, in his eyes, his body language, the way his hands curled and uncurled as he took a step.  He wanted to speak—he was going to speak— “Bucky, listen, I…”

But his hand raised, metal fingers glinting faintly in the dim, grey light of the studio.  “Wait,” he breathed.  “Please, I need to say something first.”

Steve stopped, blinking once, before nodding slowly.  Bucky motioned to the chairs, and they sat together.  A knot began to twist inside of Bucky’s stomach, but he sucked a breath between his teeth.  And he began.

“I’ve…  Taken some time to think.  I’ve taken a lot of time to think, actually, and I’ve… been lucky to have some good people be here for me when I needed them most.  And they’ve helped me see things from different perspectives, and they’ve listened to me when I said things that I really didn’t want to say aloud.  And I’ve learned something real important in the last few weeks, something that I should have had in mind a long time ago and I didn’t.”  He was rambling.  Inhaling sharply, Bucky looked down at his hands.  Steve was watching him closely.

“I’ve been… real shitty to you, to Natasha.  The two of you got tangled up into the mess of my issues, and I made it your responsibility to take care of me every moment I got upset, and that’s not okay.  And I know that now.  I made you two responsible for my happiness.  And maybe it might not have seemed like it but I know I did.  I know because I fucking tanked when we split, and I was a mess, and thinking about it now fucking terrifies me because I let you walk away and I wasn’t able to look after myself ‘cause you and Nat weren’t there anymore.  And that’s _my_ business to handle.

“And, y’know…  I know I can’t always do this alone—I don’t have to.  ‘S what friends and family are for, to help be supportive.  But you shouldn’t have to be the _only_ way I can cope and heal, and I made you into that anyway.  And I’m… I’m really sorry for that.  I—I care so much for you, and for Nat, but this time apart really made me see that I also need to care for myself—first and foremost.  ‘Cause if I can’t do that, I can’t expect it of you, and I can’t really give back to you.”

The knot was tightening, twisting, and his hands were trembling.  But he breathed, swallowing the tension that crept into his spine and along his shoulders.  Steve was silent, his eyes clear, never once leaving Bucky’s face.

“But that doesn’t excuse what had happened at Thanksgiving…”  Bucky trailed, slowly lifting his gaze to meet Steve’s.  “I regret a lot of what happened, I do—more than, fucking, anyone, I think.  I regret not being honest, not being willing to take a risk, not being able to say what I wanted to, and letting you walk away without a fight.  But I was scared, Steve.  I… I couldn’t really bring myself to bring it up but I went into that dinner knowing that Sam didn’t think I was ready for more as far as a civilian.  I already felt defeated enough and I just wanted _something_ to go right…

“I think a part of me was always wondering, worried about what my family would say when they found out about yours and Nat’s careers.  But when the actual question came up, I couldn’t bring myself to face that possibility.  And it… it never really was about _what_ you do—I mean, I can’t.. I can’t fucking lie, I was nervous about telling them you’re a porn star, but I’ve never been ashamed of _you_ , Steve.  I’ve never been embarrassed by you or your work—your work is how I _fucking met_ you, for Christ’s sake.  But I was so bent on everything being perfect, and in that moment I was _so_ scared that they would be angry or disappointed or that you would feel unwelcome and I _just_ …  I just wanted one thing to be good.  And you didn’t see that.  Nat didn’t see it, my parent’s didn’t…  I thought it was so clear to me, but no one else saw it. 

“And then when we fought, you thought it was because I was embarrassed or ashamed and I was trying so hard to tell you that it wasn’t.  And you said you wanted a break.  And I got even more scared and I just froze and I let you walk away.  And I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes but I wouldn’t have… ever done that to you.  And I—fuck, I care for you so much it literally fucking hurt to be away from you, but if that’s all it takes to make you want to leave?  A fat mess of a situation like that?  I… I don’t know how I can do this?  I can’t… I’m still figuring _me_ out, and I know I need to figure me out before I figure out _us_ , but if it’s gonna be hot and cold and shit, I just… I can’t.”

Tears had long since stung and spilt, trailing down the sides of Bucky’s face.  His heart was beating viciously within his chest, and his breathing was light and almost weak, coming uneven and between his teeth sometimes like his life depended on it.  His cheeks were flushed, and for several moments he merely stared at his hands, unable to bring himself to lift his head and meet Steve’s eyes.

But when he did, good God, he wasn’t sure if it was better or worse; Steve’s eyes were just as wet, his face red, fingers knotted together against his knee—tucked over the other.  There was a streak that tracked down the left side of his face, dark splotches along his sleeves.  Choking down the lump in his throat, Bucky blinked slowly, and Steve licked his lips.

“I am so sorry,” was the first thing Steve said, and it was hushed, tender on the edge of his tongue, “I am so sorry that I made you feel like you were backed into a corner, like you were expected to give a specific answer.  I’m sorry I wasn’t more receptive to you that night.  That’s… that’s something I can never truly make up to you, but I would like to try…

“But I have to be honest.  I was scared too—for different reasons.  I was afraid you were ashamed—I _know_ , I know you’re not.  It’s okay.  I’ve never been ashamed of being in the sex industry, I’ve never really cared much of outside opinions regarding what I do or how I live my life ‘cause it _is my life_ , and no one else’s.  I’ll choose to live it how I want, with the people I want in it.  But in that moment…  I guess I panicked.  I saw something happening that had happened once before, a really long time ago, and I was…”  Steve trailed off, visibly swallowing before looking down at his own hands.  Bucky frowned, but said nothing.  He had to give Steve the chance to speak, he had to give him the same respect Steve had shown him.

“Do you remember when I mentioned my previous boyfriend?  The one my boss tried to swindle into a movie with me?  He’d been a good guy, we’d known each other a while.  And while he wasn’t overtly _thrilled_ with my line of work, he respected that it was something I was good at and something I liked—most days.  He respected that it was what I did and I wasn’t going to stop any time soon.  But after that day with my boss, something just… changed.

“It wasn’t like anything physically changed, he didn’t become vicious or anything.  But he became colder about the topic.  If we were out and anyone even breathed within the vicinity of asking what I did for a living, he would change the topic immediately.  If anyone outright asked, he would say I worked in film, or nothing at all—I can’t… I can’t even count the number of times that he said I wasn’t working.  He became…obsessive over hiding what I did.

“When I asked him about it, he didn’t want to talk.  He kept up that cold façade of pretending it was a reality that didn’t existed, and when I pressed, he just… he exploded.  He went off about how he didn’t want people asking how many partners I had for my films, if I was ever at risk of diseases, if _he_ was at risk of diseases.  He didn’t want people to think badly of _him_ for having a boyfriend who was a porn star, let alone caring what people would think about _me_.  And that whole thing… it hurt.  It tore me apart, and when he left I thought it was because _I_ had done something wrong.

“I can’t…”  Steve breathed again.  The momentary silence was enough for Bucky to cave in, to sink a little lower into his chair, and feel like the biggest dick in the world.  “I can’t begin to count the number of times Natasha and I talked it over, how many times she had to console me, and that who I was, what I did, and how I lived my life were independent things, and that they were all okay.  And I guess at dinner the other night, the way it went down… I could have cried right then, because that conversation with your parents was almost verbatim every conversation I had with my ex and anyone who was able to ask what I did for a living.

“And I… I am so fucking sorry for how I reacted.  I shouldn’t have been angry at you, I should have just asked what was wrong and let you speak.  But all I could see in my head was my ex, all I could hear was everything he’d said, or didn’t say, and while that hurt at the time, imagining the same thing with you nearly fucking killed me.  And I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty, I’m not saying this to make you feel like you were obligated to let me be honest—I never told you about this.  I never told you what happened with my ex, and maybe if I had we wouldn’t have gone into that dinner so blindly…”

Steve sighed again, lifting his head so their eyes could meet.  He clenched and unclenched his jaw, licking his lip before swallowing.  “I said I wanted a break because I thought… I thought if I cut it there, if I called for that pause, if I walked away first, you wouldn’t be able to see how torn apart I was inside.  And I wouldn’t have to see what it would do to you.  And that is something I will regret for the rest of my life, Buck, because when I left that day I felt like everything inside of me was screaming.  I tried to ignore it, to just go back to work, and continue on with my life, and I couldn’t.  Every dream I had was about you, every moment I contemplated calling you.  I just wanted to forget and move on and be totally fine in my own world, but you are so much more than all of that, and to think for a moment that I would live a life having known you but not having you there anymore?  I couldn’t…”

“Steve..”  Bucky’s voice was barely a rasp, and Steve shook his head.

“I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have walked away.  I should’ve told you sooner about my ex.  I shouldn’t have blown up at you like that.  You said you wanted to focus on yourself, care for yourself first.  I’m right there with you, but I’d be a goddamn fool if I didn’t admit that my days are a little darker without you.  I mean, sure, I can support myself, I can live my life and be happy on my own because I’ve worked hard to make that happen, but it’s just not the same without you.  And… Goddamn it _all_ , I see something for us.  I see a future—that stupid dream of a cute suburban house and a white picket fence and a fucking dog… but, Buck… if you really wanna keep this up, if you need more time for yourself, then I’ll support that.  I’ll be here.  I’ll wait.  I’ll wait until the end of the line, because a life without you is just… it’s not good enough.”

Trembling legs lifted him, and shaking fingers reached for him as Bucky stood, curling his fingers into the collar of Steve’s coat as he brought the blond to his feet.  Stepping close, he smashed their mouths together, whimpers coming to the back of his throat and bubbling into Steve’s mouth.  Steve’s hands cupped Bucky’s face, warm and soft and digging just a little too hard into the back of his head as they kissed.  But Bucky dared not protest; truthfully, he didn’t want to.

Even when breathing became necessary, Bucky didn’t pull away.  Tears rolled down the sides of his face and all he could think was _SteveSteveSteveSteve_ , and he kissed harder and deeper.  He pressed himself closer, looping an arm around Steve’s neck, fingers knotting into the fabric of his coat as Steve’s hands slid into his hair, tangling themselves, pulling lightly.

Whimpering softly, they parted enough for what was meant to be a breath, until Steve kissed the corner of his mouth, and whispered so softly Bucky almost didn’t hear him.

“I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLy SHIT SO MUCH TALKING  
> LIKE SO MUCH TALKING
> 
> Asdfghjkl.
> 
> Anyway. Wowzers. So we did it. We're here (well, in part. We're not done yet. There are still some kinks to sort and bumps in the road to pass, but hey! The major one is gone). Also holy shit this chapter is over 3300 words long and it's primarily TALKING.
> 
> And holy hell, you lot are amazing. Some of the comments I've received in the last week have really been so moving I've almost been reduced to tears while at work. That many of you are so touched and so inspired and find strength in this fic really means a lot to me; I am so thankful that I am able to reach out to many of you and help you in some fashion or another. The stories you share with me are the greatest gift for someone in my position. So thank you so, so much.
> 
> Another thank you, as always and forever, to Captain, who basically gave me the bread and butter and bones for this chapter. Without her this whole thing would probably not be nearly as eloquent or rounded. It probably would have resulted in someone shouldering all of the blame and taking fault and "I know I have a lot to work on but I want to be better for you" and that's just... I'm so happy we're here instead. And I'm sure some people might not see it that way, but of my many discussions with Cap, she has always helped steer me into the best possible way of evening the field and understanding these characters in a better light. Without her half of this story really wouldn't even function or exist. So from this point forward I really and truly want to dedicate this entire work to her, for she has been my voice of reason, my reassurance, my inspiration, and first and foremost my friend. <3 I love you so much. 
> 
> This chapter is taking elements of two different ideas that she'd shared with me, and I can only pray I've done them justice. Thank you so much for all of your help, and I am hopeful that you may be willing to continue to inspire me. And I hope I can do the same for you.


	60. Chapter 60

_I love you_.

They were wrapped up in one another for a good, long while after that, swaying to music only their hearts could hear, lips seeking solace together, hands and fingers finding purchase in hair, against shoulders, under the curves of jawlines and tucked behind ears.  The snow swirled and the wind whistled against the window panes, and their shadows were cast long and heavy along the floors, into the mirrors.  But they were within their world, within one another.  And there was nowhere else to be.

When they left the studio, it was to walk down the few city blocks to the small café they frequented so often, laughing as they dusted snow from one another’s shoulders and hair before ordering two steaming cups of hot chocolate—extra sweet, because _why the fuck not_ —before braving the winds and the white once more. 

_I love you_.

Their footsteps left tracks in the snow on the sidewalks that would soon be covered again, as if their traces were temporary amidst the white of the world around.  Even so young in the day the sky was darkened, but it seemed a little less foreboding, not quite so dismal anymore.  Their arms were linked, and they kept close to one another more for the sake of it than anything else.  Tongues and bellies were warmed and smiles never faded even as they passed the studio once more and continued on.

They took the cars back to Bucky’s apartment—closer than Steve’s, for sure—where they left them before holing themselves up inside.  Cocoa cups and snow-soaked coats were abandoned in the living room.  Shoes were discarded in the hallway.  Somewhere along the way they’d clutched and pulled at waistbands and t-shirts before settling on kissing sweetly and falling into Bucky’s abandoned bed, sliding their way under the blankets before wrapping themselves up in one another, dressed yet exposed.

_I love you_.

Bucky sighed into Steve’s mouth, pressed as close as physics could possibly allow, yet the depths of his soul, the deepest bottom of his heart ached, as though they were just not close enough.  Steve’s fingers slid from his hair down the line of his left shoulder and along his arm, gripping at the metal, bringing it around his side until Bucky shifted and curled, digging his fingertips into the back of the brunette’s shoulder.  Steve hissed and moaned, slipping one denim-clad knee between Bucky’s.

Bucky nipped lightly against the hollow of Steve’s throat, teeth dragging over the sharp edge of his Adam’s apple, lips caressing his skin as though he were made of porcelain.  His tongue traced a line back down towards the dip of his shoulder where he tasted metal.  Looking down, he followed the chain, pulling it free to find his tags still hanging from Steve’s neck.  His heart lurched as Steve’s hand fisted into the hem of his shirt.  They kissed again.

_I love you_.

Steve’s lips were like the summer sun, hot and blistering and so welcome against the cold backdrop of Bucky’s body and being; his fingers were the breeze, brushing back the traces of ice, the desolate horrors of his memories; the look in his eyes calmed the storms that had once washed up and taken hold, easing them—easing _him_.  Each kiss filled Bucky with absolution, each touch melted the tension just that much more.  He could live and love without Steve.  But Steve made it _easier_.

Fingers trailed up the front of his shirt, pressing into the metal that rested near his heart.  Brows furrowed, eyes focusing, and Bucky reached in, pulling at his own chain, Steve’s tags having never really left him.  No matter how many times he thought to tear them away, to hurl them at a wall and scream and cry—his fingers would always touch them, trace the print of Steve’s name.  He would weep, and leave them.

Steve’s eyes softened, and his forehead pressed to Bucky’s.

_I love you_.

Steve’s nimble hands removed his shirt after a time, his fingers and lips tracing the scars and the marks, remapping them, naming each web after a constellation.  Bucky shivered and sighed, his own prints drawing the mess of freckles across his back and shoulders, naming them after stars.  Words tripped like clumsy steps over their tongues, sentences lost in sighs or against the curve of shoulders and throats.  They clung and touched and kissed but without a lusting fire—rather, it was something sweeter.  Something more than primal.

Bucky’s arms were around Steve, with Steve’s nearer to his waist, as they kissed.  Lazy, simple little kisses, with some lasting longer than others and some involving more tongue than others.  It wasn’t until the quiet lull of heartbeats had subdued the nature to chaste pecks and, eventually, to just being content with one another’s company that Steve’s mouth pressed to his forehead, the buzz of words vibrating to his temple.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet. Expect something of more substance this weekend.   
> I had another idea in mind for this, but every time I erased it and tried again, I just had these images of subtle, distant pictures of these two just falling in together. No want or desire beyond company and affection. 
> 
> so yeah, it's only like 800 words. But I hope you all like it. <3
> 
> Also it's really quite a sad song lyrically, but I had "Shaped Like A Gun" by Tailor on repeat, more for the sound and the feeling. And specifically the line "we were only lovers".


	61. Chapter 61

When Bucky’s eyes fluttered open, the dark of the room seemed heavy and thick.  Once, he could recall, it would have startled him to see and hear nothing.  But tonight it was comfortable, peaceful.  He blinked slowly, breathing deeply as he rolled onto his side, reaching out to brush the bed with his fingers.  Warmth seeped into his fingertips though the space was empty.  Frowning softly, he turned his head, peering into the dark as though it might help.  It didn’t.

Sitting up slowly, a small yawn escaped Bucky’s lips as he swung his feet from the bed, slipping off of the edge.  The carpet bristled and pillowed his feet, his jeans shifting and sagging to his hips as he stepped forward toward the door.  With a small creak he opened it, a faint yellow glow coming from the living room.  Shuffling out, his shoulders swayed with his steps as he raked a hand through his hair, squinting faintly as he took in his surroundings.

A clock on the wall nearby ticked, its hands pointing at a seven and a nine.  Coats had been neatly draped on the back of the couch, folded in half and laid flat.  Shoes were place by the door, the two pairs side by side.  His eyes swept toward the right where Steve’s brunette head was bent over a book, pages quietly flipping one after the next.

Smiling faintly, Bucky crossed to the back of the couch, sliding his arms along the edge and over Steve’s shoulders.  He locked them over his chest, pressing a small kiss to Steve’s hair as one of Steve’s hands came up and folded over the back of Bucky’s.  

“How long have you been up?”  Bucky mumbled against Steve’s hair, peering down over his head to see Steve’s fingers lingering on an old family photo tucked into an album Bucky had almost forgotten he owned.  It was of him and Rebecca during their younger years when the family had vacationed down in Florida for the summer.

“Just about a half hour or so?  Expected you to be out for the night,” Steve mused, drawing circles into the back of Bucky’s hand with his thumb.  “Decided to poke around and I found this on that shelf over there.  Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Bucky chuckled, kissing Steve’s hair again before pulling away to walk around the couch and take up residence at Steve’s side.  Snuggling in, Bucky tucked his head against Steve’s shoulder, looking down at the photo album in Steve’s lap.  “I remember that vacation.  Bec and I got so sunburned.”

“Really?”  Steve chortled, his fingers tracing the date to the right of the photo.  _July 5 th, 1997_.

“Yeah.  Two twits who forgot sunscreen.  Luckily Ma had packed Aloe-Vera, otherwise the rest of that trip would’a been miserable.”  Bucky said with a smile, flipping to the next page to see more photos from that vacation.  Pictures from Disney, from visiting a few of the lighthouses— _he’s still convinced he saw a ghost at St. Augustine, there’s just no other explanation_ —visiting the beach again on their last day.  Steve silently turned the page again, and his school photo from fall of ’99 popped up—seventeen and his face was starting to thin, his jawline becoming defined, the scruff of facial hair not so pubescent and awkward. 

Bucky licked his lips, glancing over at Steve’s face, watching with a smile as a kind of fond distance seemed to glisten within his eyes, lost in another world while staring down at Bucky’s teenage self.  Bucky’s own gaze wandered down to the page, seeing Rebecca’s school photo— _she hated having braces and so she refused to smile with her teeth_ —and the photo of Bucky’s school football team about a month before conference games started— _his hair was so unkempt back then, all short and tousled_.

Steve turned the page again, and Bucky smiled fondly at spring break photos of going up into Canada and taking pictures with as many moose-related figures and souvenirs as possible because _they were silly American teenagers and oh-my-god-this-coffee-cup-has-a-moose-with-sunglasses-on-it_.  And a quiet kind of laugh escaped Steve’s chest as his fingers traced over the date next to a photo of Bucky buried waist-deep in snow and looking entirely displeased with everything.  _March 17 th, 2000.  Bucky didn’t realize there was a hole in the ground._

More pages flipped, more memories blurred by, and they looked at photos from Bucky’s college days—where he got into better shape with dancing and engineering, his body filled out in the right places and he finally knew how to style his hair in a way that was flattering.  Steve’s head rested against the top of Bucky’s as they went through the photos, Bucky occasionally explaining a memory behind one or shaking his head at a candid photo that Rebecca _must_ have taken.

When they turned the page again, the only photo was of the day that Bucky had left for basic training.  He had been holding his mother, smiling brightly for the camera.  _2004.  Bucky leaves for basic tomorrow morning, will be gone at least six months_.  His eyes had been so clear, so determined, so hopeful.  Even though there were tears on his mother’s face, she looked proud.  His heart twisted some within his chest and he swallowed thickly.  He was a better man now than he had been before.  But it was hard to see himself so naïve and bright, with a flesh and bone left hand holding his mother’s shoulder tight.

On the next page was a photo of the Barnes family all together around a restaurant table; Bucky was in his uniform, home for a short while from basic, with his sister to his left, his mother to his right, and his father on the other side.  He could remember a waiter or waitress taking the photo of them just before their meal had arrived.   

His gaze lingered on the photo; it was only six or seven months after he’d left for basic but he looked so different.  His body was different, the way he held himself looked different.  The set in his jaw and the look in his eyes were different.  Bucky swallowed slowly, watching Steve’s nimble fingers flip to the next page, where only one photo was sitting. 

It was from when he’d come back from his first tour, sometime in late summer.  His skin was tanned and he had an arm around Rebecca, his father on his other side.  There was a smile on his face, yet a lingering darkness in his eyes.  He remembered that trip home, unwilling to share some of the things he’d seen and experienced overseas.  He could remember telling his family that he was going into the special program that would take him to Russia.  He could remember telling them that it was a regiment that could last anywhere from two years to four or five. 

He could remember promising them he would write, and be home soon.

Steve flipped to the next page.  It was blank.

The next was blank, too, as were the following three.

“That last one was just before I left for the program that would take me to Russia.  I didn’t get a chance to come home before going in two-thousand-eight.  And then… well, you know what happened next.”

Steve was silent for a long while, his blue eyes never leaving the cream-colored pages, glossed with spaces to slip photos and other memorabilia.  His lips were partially parted, breath so soft Bucky wondered if he was actually breathing at all.  Frowning softly, he tilted his head, watching Steve’s profile before gently easing his fingers through the hair above the nape of his neck.

“Steve?”  Bucky whispered, thumb massaging a circle into his hairline. 

“How could they have done this to you?  To your family?  You were home, on American soil, and they kept you from the people who needed you most.  The people _you_ needed most…  I don’t understand.  I should be looking at reunion photos, or—or, fucking, I dunno—recent Christmas photos, for fuck’s sake.  The last memory your parents had of you was from dinner at a Mexican restaurant.”

“Steve… it’s not something either of us can change.  Yeah, it sucked then and it sucks now to think about it, but I have my family _now_.  We’re making up for lost time.”

Steve shook his head, jaw clenched for a moment.  “I just… if it were me, and my mom was left without any word or consolation as to my whereabouts, or if she found out she’d been lied to…  She’d’ve raised hell.”  There was a small, quiet laugh beneath his words, but the sharp edge as it faded and the hard look in Steve’s eye twisted Bucky’s heart. 

“Tell me about her,” Bucky suggested.  More than anything he wanted to get Steve’s mind off of the photos, off of the stolen years of Bucky’s life.  It wasn’t something they could change, it wasn’t something to fix.  He’d spent long enough dwelling on it on his own that he couldn’t imagine bringing Steve down with him.  Steve had baggage enough, and Bucky would be damned if he let Steve eat himself over something he had no part in.

“She was a nurse,” he said simply, like that was the only thing she could have ever been, or wanted to have been, “she was always looking out for me as a kid.  Remember I told you I was always sick?  She was always… always there.  Kept me in check, kept me kicking.  Even after Dad kicked it she kept truckin’ on like she was made of steel.  She was heartbroken, and had her moments where the world was too dark—I know it—but she made it a point to give me a good life and a good chance at what I wanted to do.  And no matter how bad a day she was having, or—or how sad she might have been feeling… every time she looked at me, you’d’ve thought she was looking at the sun the way her eyes lit up.”

Smiling, Bucky pressed his elbow to the back of the couch, leaning his head into his hand.  “She sounds amazing.”

“She was the best,” Steve mused fondly, smiling faintly as he turned to look Bucky in the eye.  “I miss her every day.  I wonder if she’d be proud of me, and what I do for a living.  And I think, so long as she knew I was being safe, she’d be happy as long as I was okay.”

“I wish I could’ve met her,” Bucky said.  Steve’s smile widened some, his eyes flicking to Bucky’s lips before looking away.

“She would have liked you.  A lot.  Probably would’a considered you her own.  Definitely would’a tried to arm wrestle you.” 

Bucky laughed, loud and heartily, his hand falling down along the back of the couch before dropping around Steve’s shoulders.  “How much you wanna bet even from the grave she could still kick my ass?”

“Nah, I won’t make that bet,” Steve said, smiling, “only because I don’t want to test the theory.”

Smirking, Bucky shook his head, leaning over to kiss him.  _I love you, too_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regrettably the best way I can summarize this is: Meh.   
> There are parts of it I like more than others. Writing about Sarah Rogers painfully makes me realize how little I actually know of her character (quite frankly the ONLY basis I have of her is from Cap's stories XD).   
> Hopefully the next few will be better. <3


	62. Chapter 62

He pulled away from Steve’s side when his phone began buzzing in the pocket of his coat, vibrating lightly against the back of the couch.  Shifting and fumbling through it, he managed to pull the device free to see Rebecca’s name light up across the screen.  Swiping to the right, Bucky brought the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Rebecca breathed, “where ya at?  Ma’s worried.  You’ve been gone all day.”

He brought the phone down.  _10:18PM_.  Shit.  “Sorry, Bec.  I got a bit caught up with Steve.”

“Steve?” she said almost at once.  “So…  I take it everything’s good?”  There was hope in her voice, and Bucky smiled.

“Yeah, we’re good.   We’ve just been hanging out at my apartment.  We were looking through some old photos.  Didn’t mean to be out so late.  Tell Ma I’m sorry?”

“Tell her yerself,” Rebecca mused, and there was a shuffling sound before Winifred’s voice filled his ear.

“What’s this I hear about Steve?”  Bucky’s smile widened, and Steve was watching him.

“We met up.  We’re good.”  He said, reaching over to take Steve’s hand in his, lacing their fingers. 

“Oh, good.  I’m so happy, James,” his mother cooed, and he could just see her placing a hand over her heart, her eyes as bright as her smile.  “I had wondered briefly if that was where you might’ve been, but I’m happier to know it’s true.  I know it’s late but dinner’s still warm from earlier.  I made lasagna if you’re hungry?”

As if waiting for a cue, Bucky’s stomach rumbled, and his cheeks flushed as Steve threw his head back and laughed aloud.  His free hand came and palmed the left half of his chest, and Bucky shook his head.  “As a matter of fact, I am.  And if Stevie keeps laughing, he’ll be chewing on apologies when he doesn’t get any delicious, home-cooked lasagna.”

Steve chortled a _Hey now_ , and Winifred was practically smiling through the line.  “Well come on home, then, before it gets any colder.”

“Thanks, Ma,” Bucky said, before hanging up.

The drive was short and sweet, and, though it was a less-desired thing, they went separately so that Bucky could return his parents’ car and Steve’s wasn’t left stranded at the apartment.  The momentary space was good, though, as Bucky was able to reflect on the day’s events, and the emotions that had been stirred and kindled. 

The time away from Steve had been hard; there had been many moments of weakness, points of darkness that had consumed him in depression and grief.  There were plenty of instances, as well, of anger, and spite over everything that had happened.  But the conversations with Rebecca, Sam, and Natasha had pieced these separate issues together, and Bucky had felt calm going into that studio to wait for Steve.

And he was thankful that, coming out of it, he was resolved—with Steve, and himself.

He would always feel as though they could have handled it better.  And he knew moving forward there would always be conversations that would need careful consideration, planning, and plenty of prep-talks before any big decisions could be made.  A part of him wondered, briefly, if it was so wise to go into having a late dinner with his family and Steve given that the last time they’d all been together things hadn’t ended well. 

But Bucky allowed himself a smile as he shook his head.  This would be different.  Things would be better.  He couldn’t imagine the conversations or the tones that the evening would hold, but his heart _knew_ it would be better.

He parked in the driveway, with Steve on the street, and he turned his gaze to see a familiar black car parked nearby.  _Natasha_?

Slipping out, he fell in step beside Steve, walking towards the front door.  “When d’you think Nat got here?” he asked, gesturing to her car just down the curb from Steve’s.

“Couldn’t tell you,” Steve said, linking their arms together to shield from the cold.  It was only a few yards from the driveway to the front door, but the wind whipped snow down the backs of their necks and when they stepped inside, their teeth were chattering.

Nestled on the couch was Rebecca, whose knee was tucked up and bracing a coffee cup, minimally supported with her left hand.  Across from her was Natasha, who had her foot up and knee to her chest, a cup of her own on the coffee table nearby.  Both looked up as Steve and Bucky stepped through the threshold and into the house, the door shutting quietly behind them.  Rebecca smiled.  Natasha’s lips curled faintly, but her joy was evident in the gleam of her eyes.

“Well it’s about damn time,” Rebecca said.  Bucky and Steve laughed, shaking snow off of their coats and from their hair.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky said, shrugging out of his coat, “I got’cher ‘about time’.”

“Did you boys have a nice time together?”  Natasha mused, reaching for her mug.

“You know what Romanoff,” Steve began.  Natasha smiled, bringing her mug to her lips to drink.

“Dinner’s on the table for you,” Rebecca said, drinking as well before turning her eyes back to Natasha.

“It’s a dangerous thing to let them be friends,” Steve whispered, following Bucky to the dining room.

“You’re telling me,” he agreed, finding his parents sitting at the table as well, their mugs looking to hold coffee or cocoa.  Two plates were side by side, with a pan of a half-eaten lasagna, a serving spatula, and garlic bread nearby.

Sitting, Bucky smiled to his mother, “Thanks for saving us some.”

Winifred shrugged a shoulder, returning the smile as her hands cupped her mug.  “No worries.  Figured you might be hungry.  What happened, if I may?”

Steve dished Bucky’s plate first while Bucky explained the call and the decision to meet at the studio.  Together, they retold in short their conversation, how they both had owned up to mistakes and shared things that should have been mentioned sooner.  All the while, Winifred and George listened intently, their eyes shifting back and forth from Bucky to Steve and back again.  Bucky’s heart beat steadily, and when he took Steve’s hand, he was thankful that neither of them were trembling.

Winifred and George were silent for a moment, allowing Bucky an opportunity to take a small bite of his lasagna—flavors which were divine and put him right back into his childhood momentarily before his mother shifted in her seat.  “I’m happy that you two made things work, and that you had a chance to be honest with us.  And I want to apologize that both of you were left to feel uncomfortable or afraid to feel safe and welcomed here.”

“Mrs. Barnes—” Steve began, and Winifred raised her hand.

“You can call me Winifred, or Ma.  Just not Mrs. Barnes,” she said with a smile.  Steve chuckled lightly.

“You don’t have to apologize to us,” Steve continued.  “These were things Bucky and I should’a figured out before coming, and we didn’t.  That was our mistake, not yours.”

“Maybe not,” George cut in, leaning back in his chair some.  “but I told this to James, and I’m gonna tell it to you, Steve.  I didn’t handle what happened well, and that’s my problem.  But I love my son, and I regret what happened.  I thank God every day that he’s alive and well and back in our lives, and I thank God for giving him people he can trust and support and be supported by.  That includes you, and Natasha.  I can’t take back what happened, or how I reacted, but I can promise I’ll be better.  Because you make my son happy.  And what you do is your business.  So long as you’re safe, and you take care of one another, that’s enough for me.  I don’t want you to feel like you need to toe some kinda line when you’re here—that ain’t fair.  Our house is yours.”

Bucky’s heart swelled, tears stinging his eyes as he looked over at Steve.  For a moment, the brunette was unreadable, but a kind of glimmer appeared in his baby blues and Bucky reached over to take his hand, lacing their fingers.  Steve blinked, smiling brightly as he swallowed slowly.

“Well,” Steve began, shrugging as he smiled from the corner of his mouth, “I have been thinking about moving closer to this area.”

George laughed heartily, and Bucky squeezed Steve’s fingers. 

“Honestly, thank you, George,” Steve said, a more serious tone in his voice. “That… that means more than I can say.  Y’know, I—I spent so long worrying about making a good impression but I never really told anyone about it.  And this—my career in porn—it’s not something I want to do forever.  I can’t feasibly _see_ myself doing it forever.  It’s what works and what pays bills now, but it’s not a permanent, life-long thing.  It’s only for now.”

“What’s only for now?”  Natasha’s voice came from the left as she and Rebecca circled into the dining room.

“Steve’s gonna be looking for a new line of work,” Bucky said, taking another bite.  Natasha chuckled.

“Glad that icebreaker’s done then,” she said.  Steve frowned.

“Pardon?”

Natasha paused, and turned around.  “Oh, right.  Well, you were busy all day today, and I hadn’t had a chance to talk to you.  But I put in a notice.  Phil wants us to do one more film together as a big farewell to my presence in the industry.”

Steve’s eyes widened.  “Thanks for the heads up?”  Bucky laughed.

“Well, I was gonna tell you eventually,” she said, casually leaning against the wall.  Rebecca made her way into the kitchen.  “But…  I figured it’s time I took your soldier boy’s advice.”

Bucky’s brows knit together, but his mouth curled into a smile.  “And what’s that?”

Natasha’s eyes lit up faintly.  “Time to follow a dream.  I’m getting full ownership of that studio.  I’m putting forms out for clients next week.”

“Sign me up,” Bucky said at once.  Natasha raised a brow.

“I’ll be focusing primarily on ballet.”  She explained.  Bucky shrugged, grinning.

“I’m a fast learner.”  She shook her head, but the smile on her full lips warmed him.

“Well, shit,” Steve mused, leaning into his chair.  “Losing my favorite partner.  Guess I should pursue a dream.”

“Now, don’t give into pressure,” Rebecca quipped.  “To Nat’s credit, she’s had her hand in that studio for a while.”

“This is true,” Steve scrunched his nose a little, his gaze drifting.  Bucky smiled, finishing his lasagna before sliding his plate away.  “Well, you’re gonna be needing a business card, advertising, a proper sign.”

“Could be a graphic designer for her,” Winifred suggested.  Steve smiled at her.

“Could, yeah.”

“We’ll work something out,” Natasha insisted, winking at Steve. 

“I’m sure you will,” Bucky interjected.  Under the table, Steve’s knee bumped his own.

“Oh,” Winifred turned her attention to better focus on Steve and Natasha both, and Bucky watched her closely, “will you two be joining us for Christmas?  I know it’s probably last minute, and we’ll understand if you have other family obligations?”

Bucky knew better, but he looked to Steve and Natasha, smiling softly at them.  They looked to one another, before turning their focus on him.  Both sets of eyes seemed mirrored in all but color, and the weight and affection made him feel small yet safe.

“We’ll be here,” Steve said, giving Bucky’s hand a squeeze.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Natasha added, giving Bucky a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say how much I appreciate all of you for having stuck around for sixty-two chapters (and almost a year holy shit like???). Your comments, criticisms, kudos, and everything mean the absolute world to me. It's amazing that this has become so well received and continues to receive good notes and praise. I honestly.. I just can't, I am floored, and I love it all. Thank you, thank you.
> 
> Special thanks to Cap, as always, for being my advisor, my partner for much of this fic, and my friend. This is all for you. <3  
> More thanks to Emma and Hannah for putting up with me and for giving me real-time reactions to certain chapters <3 You two are the best. 
> 
> I can't say when this will end, though I have an inkling it'll be sooner rather than later. But I have a special surprise that will occur once this is all said and done. And I think you'll enjoy it. <3


	63. Chapter 63

“Have you given any thought about that getaway trip I told you about a few weeks back?”

It was the first thing Steve had said since they’d abandoned the darkening living room in favor of the room Bucky had been staying in.  Winifred and George had long since gone to bed, speaking briefly of a grocery list in need of updating for Christmas dinner.  Rebecca and Natasha remained awake and chatting away while flipping through Netflix, the two of them giving Steve and Bucky barely more than a wave as they said goodnight. 

Bucky stripped out of his shirt, letting the tags fall against his chest before turning towards Steve.  “I hadn’t really, no.  I think we were still in the air about what to do exactly, weren’t we?”

Steve shrugged, unfolding a second blanket to spread out over the bed.  “I think so.  I ask ‘cause a friend of mine has a cabin on the Shenandoah, and he’s willing to let us use it for a few nights after Christmas.  If we wanna go.”

Bucky smiled warmly, setting his shirt aside.  In the low light of the room, he could see a glimmer in Steve’s eye, something like hope as a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.  Licking his lower lip, Bucky crossed the floor to Steve, sliding his hands along his hips before looping his arms around Steve’s waist. 

“You really wanna do this?”  Bucky asked, looking into Steve’s eyes.  Steve’s brows raised as his mouth, half opened, pulled into a sheepish smile.

“Well, I’m not against the possibility of getting away.  Think about it—private cabin on the river?  The snow, the quiet trees.  Could probably try ice skating or something?”

“Ice skating,” Bucky mused, raising an eyebrow, “with the most uncoordinated porn star?”

Steve laughed, nudging at his shoulder, “I got better.”

“You did,” Bucky agreed, grinning.  “I’d like that.  It’d be good for us.”

Steve’s mouth closed, but his smile remained bright, his eyes flicking back and forth between Bucky’s for a moment before dropping slowly.  His gaze seemed to trace Bucky’s lips, before sinking further to follow the line of his throat to the tags resting below his collarbones.  Bucky looked down, the light glinting off of the corner, illuminating the edge above Steve’s printed name. 

A hand came up, sliding along Bucky’s chest before fingers touched the metal.  Bucky lifted his head, watching as Steve’s brown hair flashed and his head dipped in and Steve’s mouth pressed a kiss over his heart, just left of the tags.  Humming quietly, Bucky tilted his head and leaned his cheek onto Steve’s hair, smiling for a moment before those lips opened, tongue dragging across the skin and— _oh, teeth_ …

Gasping quietly, Bucky’s arms tightened just a little around Steve’s body, teeth sinking just a little deeper, sucking softly against the muscle and skin.  Shivering, Bucky leaned back as Steve pulled away, kissing a line up his front to his throat.  A laugh darted across his tongue and escaped his lips, the scruff along Steve’s jaw tickling his throat as lips and teeth nipped and scraped his neck.

“Steve,” Bucky moaned, eyes fluttering shut as metal fingers curled, a hand sliding down into the waistband of Steve’s jeans.  Steve trembled against him, a quiet yelp escaping his throat and becoming muffled and lost somewhere along Bucky’s throat. 

Hands clamored at belt buckles and buttons, and kisses ravaged the underside of Bucky’s jaw.  There was a moan that was low and deep, and Bucky wasn’t entirely sure if it was his or if it belonged to Steve, but the moment was lost in a sea of darkness and comfort as the world spun and Bucky found himself on his back on the bed, Steve’s hands almost carelessly pulling at his jeans. 

A laugh began to bubble its way into his throat, and Steve whined softly, fingers digging into the fabric.  Bucky’s jeans were only successfully pulled to his knees, his boxers haphazardly tousled around his hips and thighs.  Raising his hands, Bucky stilled Steve’s own, catching the brunette’s eye for a long moment.  Steve’s pupils were blown out, a light tremor in his fingers that rattled along Bucky’s nerves.  The smile dropped some, and Bucky eased himself up into a sitting position, Steve sliding more comfortably onto his lap.

Bringing his hands to cup Steve’s face, Bucky leaned in and kissed him slowly.  Steve moaned, lips buzzing against Bucky’s, his fingers sliding and digging at his sides, seeking purchase at his hips.  Framing Steve’s face, Bucky kept his kisses long, slow, and sweet, bordering between chaste and sinful with flashes of tongue; the occasional nip of his teeth against Steve’s bottom lip only enough to elicit a moan now and then.

“Fuck,” Steve whined against his mouth, hands pressing harder to Bucky’s skin.  Smirking faintly, Bucky dropped his hands, shifting their positions before easing Steve down onto the bed.

He made his way slowly, peppering kisses into Steve’s throat and collarbones as his hands unfastened the buttons and pulled the zipper of Steve’s jeans down.  Together, they stripped the denim and tossed it away, leaving Steve naked in the near darkness beneath Bucky’s hands.  Kicking out of his own jeans, Bucky kept his boxers for the time being, one knee between Steve’s thighs as he kissed his throat.

There was a pause, a breath passed from one to another before Bucky leaned in, kissing the line of Steve’s jaw.  And he kissed, and kissed again, up to his ear to whisper _I love you_ before nosing Steve’s hair, earning a laugh.  He made his way down, licking and nipping his throat, dragging his teeth against Steve’s Adam’s apple, licking the hollow of his throat, kissing between his collarbones.  He briefly tasted metal as he kissed the corner of the tags, resting upon Steve’s sternum. 

The path continued down Steve’s front, his hands massaging Steve’s hips as his lips brushed over the navel and dipped to the lower abdomen, teeth biting and sucking sweetly at the tiniest bit of muscle and fat there.  Steve shivered and laughed, a moan rumbling from within his chest as Bucky ghosted a breath along his cock.  A hand came up and slid into Bucky’s hair, resting there.

Smirking, Bucky brought his left hand to his lips, sliding a metal finger between his teeth to suck quietly on it.  He lathered it in spit, knowing it was not the best means of lubricant, but it would be better—and warmer—than without.  With his right hand, he nudged the underside of Steve’s left thigh, prompting him to raise his knees.  To his luck, Steve propped both legs up, his thighs framing Bucky’s head as Bucky pressed a kiss to Steve’s cock, precum already glistening at the tip.

“Fuck, Bucky,” Steve moaned.  Bucky could see his chest rising and falling in his peripheral, and he brushed the tip of his nose along the under of Steve’s cock, licking the tip to take it into his mouth.  Steve’s fingers tightened and relaxed in his hair, and Bucky pressed his fingertip to Steve’s ass.

Muscles clenched, and Steve hissed softly, more in shock than anything else. Still, it gave Bucky pause, and Steve moaned loudly before the sound muffled—as though biting into a hand or a pillow.  Bucky felt Steve relax, and he eased his finger a fraction deeper, just enough to persuade Steve’s body to relax and accept the digit, pulling it deeper.  And the deeper it went, the further Bucky took Steve’s dick into his mouth.

It was a strange sensation—if sensation was even the appropriate word.  Bucky could almost feel the tension of Steve’s body, the heat of him and the way he trembled.  But all the same, he couldn’t, and he wondered if he thought he only felt those things around the metal finger because he felt that he was _supposed_ to recognize those things.  After all, his right hand was still pressed to his thigh, and he could feel the tremble, the heat, the tightening of the muscle as Steve tensed and shivered and moaned. 

Half into his mouth already, Steve was dripping onto his tongue, and Bucky moaned, hollowing his cheeks to give a deep suck before pulling off to just the tip.  Inversely, though, he eased his finger deeper, going so far as to begin curling it to find Steve’s prostate.  The bed creaked as Steve dug his heels, his thigh bumping Bucky’s head as he trembled.

Looking up at him in the darkness, Bucky half wished they’d thought to leave another lamp on.  He could only partially see Steve’s expression, but the image of eyes squeezed shut, a fist wedged between his teeth, his other arm disappearing into his peripheral as his fingers tightened harder into Bucky’s hair was enough to send a jolt of excitement down his spine and through his own desires. 

Taking him once more, Bucky dropped his right hand beneath his boxers, giving his own cock a small stroke, going from half-hard to verging on throbbing quicker than he would have liked to admit.  Bobbing slowly, he sucked softly on Steve’s cock, keeping mind to keep his teeth clear, dragging his tongue when able, his finger slowly creating a pattern of thrusting and curling as Steve loosened up.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he was thankful that his parents’ room was on the other side of the house, and, though faint and distant, he could hear the dull roar of a movie, which meant that Rebecca and Natasha were otherwise occupied.  Not that they, themselves, were at all noisy or causing reason for suspicion.  But Bucky knew it would likely ruin the mood to be interrupted by any one of them.

Well, not Natasha.  But that was, perhaps, for another time.

Moaning, Bucky pulled off as Steve tugged on his hair, gasping softly for air.  “Please, please, wanna kiss you, Buck, wanna… c’mere,” Steve mumbled, pulling at him again.  Groaning, Bucky shifted, pressing his hips to Steve’s as Steve’s hand cupped the back of his head, their lips coming together. 

Steve rolled his hips, grinding against Bucky’s hand and cloth-covered cock.  Pulling back, Bucky grit his teeth before shoving at his boxers, easing them down enough as one of Steve’s large hands circled around their cocks.  Gasping, Bucky jerked into his touch, his finger shoving deeper into Steve’s ass.  The motion earned a jolt in Steve’s spine, his body curving as a sound came from him that seemed almost as though the wind had been knocked from him.

“Fuck,” Steve rasped, his hand just on the edge of too tight around their cocks, “oh, _fuck_ , do that again…”  Nipping at his throat, Bucky snapped his hand hard against his ass, thrusting his finger deep and sharp inside of him.  Steve’s eyes squeezed shut again, his jaw clenching.

“Steve,” Bucky whispered, thrusting against his hand and cock, easing a second finger into Steve’s body.  Steve brought his knees higher, spreading them enough to accommodate the intrusion of Bucky’s body, his breath ghosting along Bucky’s jaw.  “Shit, Steve…”

“Yeah,” came Steve’s voice, almost hoarse as Bucky’s fingers scissored and pushed deeper, “fuck, yeah, soldier boy.”

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Cap,” Bucky hissed, biting at his jaw, kissing down to his throat.  Steve chuckled low and dark.

“Tha’s right, _sergeant_ … fuck me…”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky groaned, a rush flooding him, making him ache just a little more as Steve’s hand pumped along his cock.  He could feel a pulsing in Steve’s dick against his, and soon it began to match his own.  “ _Fuck!_ ”

“Not so loud,” Steve teased, threading his fingers into Bucky’s hair.  “Wouldn’t wanna get anyone’s attention… although I’m sure Nat’d _love_ to get her hands on you.  You know how they say chick’s dig scars?  Nat’s a fucking sucker for them…”

“For fuck’s sake, Steve,” Bucky whined, thrusting his fingers.

“’S the truth.  So am I, though, if you couldn’t’ve guessed,” Steve moaned, gasping into Bucky’s cheek, rolling his hips to the motion of Bucky’s hand, easily and simultaneously fucking alongside Bucky’s cock into his own hand.  “Mm, fuck me.  Goddamn, your fingers feel so fucking good.  Started cold and warmed up to me and _Jesus fucking Christ_ this feels so good— _ah_ … shit, don’t stop…”

Groaning, Bucky clenched, thrusting his fingers harder and deeper as Steve’s hand tightened.  Biting down into the hollow of Steve’s neck and shoulder, Bucky jerked, coming hard between their stomachs.  Steve moaned, rolling his hips, sinking hard onto his fingers before coming as well, warm and thick and mixed with Bucky on their skin.

Panting softly, they settled into the bed, heads pressed together until Bucky slowly eased his fingers from within Steve’s ass—not without a whine of protest from the porn star.  Dragging his metal hand against the covers, Bucky slid his right through the mess on their stomachs, dipping his fingers through cum before bringing it to Steve’s lips. 

Smirking, Steve opened his mouth and accepted Bucky’s fingers easily, his eyes watching Bucky long after Bucky removed his hand.  Leaning in, Bucky stole a kiss, tasting their mix as well as the lingering flavor of Steve’s tongue.

“Never realized you were such a shit talker,” Bucky mused after swallowing, and Steve chuckled.

“Completely,” he said easily, wiping at his stomach again, “it was so hard during some of the films I did—especially _Under the Skin_ —where I had to play the passive edge or  keep moderately quiet save for a few _fuck yeah_ ’s, and _uhnn_ , y’know?  When I get going, I’ve got a motor mouth of profanity.”

Laughing quietly, Bucky pressed a kiss to Steve’s lower lip.  “I’d love to hear more of it.”

“I’m sure you will,” Steve agreed.

Bucky watched Steve’s face in the dark, before swallowing thickly.  “Have you ever thought about it?”

“Hmm, depends.  I think about a lot of things,” Steve mused.

“Punk,” Bucky nudged his jaw.  “You said Nat’d love to get her hands on me.  Have you ever thought about it?  The three of us?”

His heart thudded painfully for a moment in the silence that passed.  But Steve shifted, tucking an arm under his head.

“’Course I have.  Thought about it when we made that one film—the sort of sequel to _Under the Skin_?  We even talked about it briefly.”  Bucky’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair.

“You did?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, his expression momentarily washing with something that read as if the answer was so obvious.  “I mean, the three of us would have to talk about it for sure, don’t get me wrong.  But it’s crossed our minds.”

“And?”  Bucky pressed, and Steve smirked.

“And that’s a conversation the three of us can have another day.”

“Punk,” Bucky said again.  Steve cupped the back of his head, bringing him down.

“Jerk,” he whispered, kissing Bucky slowly.


	64. Chapter 64

Dawn crawled into the window, creeping with its short reach of greyed light.  Letting out a soft breath, Bucky shifted and pressed closer to the warmth surrounding him, his nose tucked against something soft, slightly bristled at an edge.  Mouth gummed at the edges, he parted his lips slowly and wet them with the tip of his tongue, swallowing as his eyes opened.  Steve’s head was tucked against his collarbone, his tousled hair tickling the edge of Bucky’s nose.  Smiling, Bucky pressed his lips to Steve’s forehead, humming softly.

In his hold, Steve shifted, his arm sliding closer to Bucky’s right shoulder, knee creeping up the inside of Bucky’s thigh.  A quick intake of breath hissed past Bucky’s teeth, and Steve’s knee rested just beneath his balls.  As if proximity wasn’t bad enough, there was a heavy pressure jutting into Bucky’s hip from Steve’s being, and the gentle smile turned wicked on Bucky’s lips. 

Slipping his left arm around Steve’s side, Bucky eased his fingers beneath the waistband of the sweats Steve had slipped into the night before, dragging the tips down along the curve of his ass.  Steve’s body tightened some, his breath hot as it brushed across Bucky’s throat.  Biting his lip, Bucky slid a finger between Steve’s cheeks, dragging the metal down the curve before teasing at his hole.  He drew circles, traced lines back and forth over it before pressing just the very tip.  Steve’s body tightened, shuddered, and relaxed, drawing him in ever so slowly.

He didn’t press further than the first joint, knowing that without proper lubrication that he could run the risk of hurting Steve.  But it was enough to get a reaction as the pressure turned into a recognizable thickness, and Steve’s breath became shallow as consciousness began to seep into his bones.  His head shifted, his lips brushing against Bucky’s throat with a quiet moan.  Steve’s hips rolled, and Bucky kissed his hair.

“Good morning,” he whispered as Steve dragged his hand away from Bucky’s shoulder, down the front of his chest, before his palm slid over Bucky’s own erection.  Gasping softly, Bucky laughed quietly as Steve nipped his collarbone.

“Jerk,” hissed Steve, grinding his hips against Bucky’s thigh, pushing back just a little on his finger.  “Fuck…”

“Trying to fuck yourself there, Cap?”  Bucky inquired, letting his finger ease just a little deeper.  Steve groaned, his hand slipping into Bucky’s boxers, curling around his cock.

“Could… want to… oh, shit…”  Steve whispered, his eyes still closed as he buried his moan into the seam of Bucky’s left shoulder.

“Didn’t use any lube though…”  Bucky trailed off.  He wouldn’t hurt Steve, not without his permission at least.  By no means was he totally educated in all aspects regarding safe sex, he at least knew that delicate matters of the ass required extensive amounts of lube.

“Mm, just,” Steve began, hissing softly as he rolled his hips again, “go slow?  Feels too good to stop.”

“Steve—”

“Do I need to make that an order, soldier boy?”  Clear, crisp, and it sent a spike straight through Bucky’s body.  His cock twitched in Steve’s hand, and a slow, lazy, sinister smile pulled at the corner of his sleep-slacked mouth.

“Fuck,” Bucky mumbled, slipping his finger to the second joint as Steve rolled again.  Steve’s heavy, large hand adjusted against his cock, gathering a better grip before stroking slowly, and Bucky’s back arched slightly.

“Deeper,” Steve breathed, rutting against Bucky’s side.  “Please, Buck—”

“Steve—” Bucky moaned, arching again.

_Knock, knock_.

No, no—nope.  No.

“Boys?” 

_Oh, thank God_.

“Yeah, Nat?”  Steve said, his voice only _marginally_ strained to Bucky’s ears.

The door creaked open, and Natasha poked her head in, only subtly hiding the smirk pulling at her Cupid’s bow lips.  “Might wanna freshen up.  Bec and I are making breakfast and your parents are gonna be up soon.”

Heart racing a thousand miles a minute, Bucky frowned.  “What time is it?” 

“Does it matter?  It’s Christmas morning, Barnes.  That’s all you need to know.”  With that, she slipped out, closing the door behind her.

Bucky paused for a moment, allowing a breath to fill his lungs before they deflated in a heavy sigh, and his head seemed to sink six inches deeper into the pillow.  If only the rest of him would sink as well.  But instead, Steve wriggled and slackened his grip just a little, and Bucky’s legs trembled weakly. 

“Should we…?”  Steve glanced to the door, though his hand did not retreat from its position around Bucky’s erection.

“I will extremely displeased if I have to get up early without enjoying this moment just a little longer,” Bucky chipped, cutting a line through Steve’s words with the tug at the corner of his mouth.  Steve grinned, and tightened his grip once more.

Two quick handjobs, a joint shower, and a hard look Natasha’s direction later, and Bucky was leaning against the countertop of the kitchen, a cup of coffee deftly held in his left hand as his right slid into the fold of his jeans, thumb hooking into softened denim.  Grey light attempted to filter through the blinds, but all that could be seen out the window was an ocean of white as snow fluttered wildly in the wind. 

Looking across the way, Bucky sipped at his mug as Natasha and Rebecca seemingly danced around one another, passing bowls and spices to and fro; Natasha seemed to be manning the stove for the most part, flipping eggs in one pan and searing bacon in another, and Rebecca started a second pot of coffee while slices of bread vanished into the toaster.

“What made you wanna get up and cook?”  Steve asked, leaning opposite of Bucky with his own ceramic mug in his grip.  There was a print of tags against his chest beneath the cotton of his shirt, his hair still partially spiked and dark at the roots. 

“Jamie and I always got up and cooked breakfast on Christmas mornings,” Rebecca explained, pouring herself a mug.  Footsteps rustled down the hall, and Bucky thought about their parents digging through boxes to find Christmas sweaters.

“You got up early, I got up with Ma and Pa,” Bucky said, lips curling before disappearing behind the rim of his cup.  Rebecca shook her head, eyes alight even in the cool of the kitchen.

“I was trying to give you _some_ credit,” she insisted.  Bucky chuckled, shrugging his shoulder.  Another step and Winifred and George slipped into the kitchen to join the four of them, and what space might have been left shrunk as four became six with only so much counter space to support people too lazy to stand proper yet too drawn by eggs and greasy bacon and coffee to move to chairs or couches. 

He gave a glance to Steve, who had become animatedly engaged in something Rebecca was saying—undoubtedly regarding their childhood, what with the scrunched expression of her face as Steve tossed his head back and grabbed at his chest.  Natasha’s head turned, her hair burning orange and red and Bucky could almost smell a pumpkin latte.  There was a soft, weathered smile on his mother’s face as their eyes met across the kitchen, and her brows pulled as her lips pursed further.  Bucky’s cheeks warmed, and he shook his head, drinking from his coffee again.

Three steps and his mother was at his side, her arm snaking across his back, her fingers daintily resting against the metal of his elbow.  Her lips pressed, warm and soft, to his temple as lavender washed over him.  Sighing softly, Bucky leaned into her, heart beating with ease.

 

* * *

“Oh, look at that, it’s a box.”

It must have been the fourth time such a statement had been spoken, but the quiet laughter of amusement continued, and Bucky sat with Steve as his sister ripped into a present.  Hip to hip, Steve’s hand was cupped over the top of Bucky’s leg just above his knee, his thumb occasionally drawing circles near the seam of his jeans.  Slinging his arm over the back of the couch and behind Steve’s neck, Bucky traced the rim of his empty mug as Rebecca’s fingers peeled the lid of the box back, finding a stack of books inside.

Her eyes bugged and she smiled brightly at their mother, her hands haphazardly flipping through them—some were paper back, some were hard back, but they all seemed to be varying in genre and style.  The titles were strange in Bucky’s mind, and he swallowed thickly as Rebecca went off on her thanks and _how did you find these?  I’ve been looking everywhere for them!!_

A chuckle poured from the corner and Bucky saw George smiling, his father’s eyes sweeping the front room before landing on Steve.  “Well, Steve, Natasha, I’m sure you can probably imagine we didn’t have much time to plan your gifts—” both Natasha and Steve began to cut in with _that’s totally fine, it’s okay, it’s not necessary_ and George raised a hand, stopping them while Bucky’s hand slid over Steve’s shoulder, “—but we wanted to try, so the stockings over there are yours, as well as the two smaller boxes beneath them.”

Steve glanced at Natasha and she nodded, standing to gather their things for the both of them.  Bucky set his cup aside, dragging his thumb across the seam of Steve’s shirt before giving a small smile to his mother and father across the living room.  Natasha dropped the box and stocking in Steve’s lap, smirking faintly before leaning against the arm of the couch to Bucky’s right.  Sliding his hand over, Bucky curled his fingers around her hip.

They opened the stockings first, finding usual stuffers like candies, little nick-knacks and a few small gift cards; little things that Bucky could fondly remember his own stockings being filled with as he was growing up.  The light, open mouthed smiles from both of them warmed his heart, and he watched Steve’s fingers as they slid under the folds of wrapping paper, delicately removing the tape.

Natasha was less intensive with the removal of her wrapping paper and tore into it with fingers and nails.  The two of them eyed one another, and a silent counter ticked before they both opened their boxes.  Leaning over, Bucky peered inside of Steve’s box where a small black book was resting, a gold ribbon hanging out from the middle of it.  Frowning, he looked to Natasha to see that she had the same one in her hands. 

The inside cover was scrawled with a note that Bucky recognized to be Winifred’s.  Bucky’s eyes traced the swirls and scripture, his heart inching closer and closer to his throat.  _You’ve come to mean the world to our son, and the happiness you’ve brought him is a gift we’ll never be able to express our gratitude for.  Most of the album is blank so that you may be able to fill it with your own memories, but we wanted to share a piece of our son that you might not have had the pleasure of knowing before but perhaps, with time, you’ll be able to love for yourself_.

Steve and Natasha turned the pages, finding a few photos that hadn’t been in the album in Bucky’s apartment, and therefore exposing memories that Bucky’s hadn’t thought about for years.  And against one page in particular was a USB drive taped to a piece of cardstock against the page, the caption entitled “Home videos and James’ dance competition”.

Looking to his mother, Bucky swallowed thickly.  “Ma…”

Winifred smiled, eyes glistening as George took her hand.  At his side, Steve shifted, standing slowly.  Bucky watched him as he set the box and book aside, before crossing swiftly to where Winifred and George were sitting.  Brows furrowing, Winifred stood slowly, and Steve’s arms circled around her shoulders, his head dipping against her frame.  Her eyes widened, but her smile was soft as she enclosed Steve in a hug.

“Thank you,” he could hear Steve muffle into his mother’s shoulder.  Winifred let out a small laugh. 

“You’re welcome, Steve,” she assured, stroking his hair, “Thank you for loving my son.”


	65. Chapter 65

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Putting this at the beginning because... well... this is it. 
> 
> I really... I really couldn't be happier with this fic. Yeah, there are things I could probably go back and change, or do differently, or parts that I would just omit all together. There were moments where I needed help and was lucky enough to receive the best advice moving forward, and for that I will forever be thankful. And it's incredibly baffling to think that it's been a year TODAY since I first started and published this work, and now here we are at sixty five chapters, 131k words, and we're done.
> 
> How does that even happen? Like... I feel like I should be way more emotional and more than anything I'm just really grateful. I'm so thankful to everyone who has commented, left kudos and criticism, those who have bookmarked this and saved it. You all make this so worthwhile. And to the people who were invested and were sharing their insights on the characters and what was happening--YOU make my heart sing. 
> 
> I have to thank a handful of friends (Emma, Hannah, Misha <3) for having been among the first to see this and really come back to me with ideas and feedback. Admittedly a lot of what we may have talked about did not get translated into this fic, but that doesn't mean those ideas are less valuable or lost forever. I treasure how much you were willing to share with me and that you encouraged me to keep going with this. Thank you.
> 
> And of course I have to give tremendous thanks to OhCaptainMyCaptain--this fic really could not have been possible without her. She has been a guiding light and inspiration and a damn good friend through it all. I remember when I first saw her comment on this and how excited I got, and I sent her a message and told her how much I appreciated it. And then from that point she was just.. she was there with advice and criticism and suggestions and there is so much of her in this work that she really must be considered a collaborator as well as muse. Like, at this point I really wish I could just gift this a thousand times over to her because that's how much her influence and guidance has meant to me. Thank you for everything.
> 
> This last chapter is over four thousand words alone (which, truthfully, is among the shortest as far as romantic scenes are concerned), but it's definitely one that I feel has a purpose. I'm sure if I were to go back over it there are, again, things I would change, but that's my position as a writer. And for what it's worth, there is so much of this that I wouldn't change because of the way it made me feel as I wrote it. So, I sincerely hope that for you, as a reader and a fan, that you feel what I felt in this last chapter, and that it has the kind of ending that satisfies you.
> 
> Additionally, there comes a part where I feel some mood music is necessary. While writing I was trying to find a particular flow, and this link really set me into that mindset that I needed to have. So, when you get to this point (and it'll seem really abstract on its own):
> 
> "Yeah?"  
> "Yeah."
> 
> Click this link --> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Lq_0P39iLg  
> The music doesn't really change, it keeps a consistent melody and flow, so you don't need to worry about playing a particular part. Just let it go and listen and read. And if it doesn't fit your vibe, I apologize, but I know for myself I love it when an author shares a piece of music that they feel with the flow of their work, and I want to give you all that same opportunity.
> 
> It's hard to imagine that this crazy ride is over, but I'm happy this is where we are. I wouldn't change it for the world. 
> 
> <3

“Your parents are the goddamn sweetest.”  Bucky rolled his eyes and laughed, slinking deeper into the driver’s seat.

“You’ve said that already,” he insisted, sparing a glance to Steve in the passenger seat.  Steve had taken up once more the position of tucking a knee against the glove box beneath the dash, the photo album propped against his thigh.  Beyond the window and the passing of their car along the high way, snow continued to flurry in light, gentle sweeps, and the sun was all but forgotten behind heavy grey and white clouds. 

“Yeah, but,” Steve trailed, flipping the page again, admiring photos from when Bucky was ten and missing one of his baby teeth.  “This…  I mean, you remember when we were at your place and I was looking through that other album.”

“I know, baby,” Bucky said, watching the road intently, easing up off the gas a few miles per hour.  “But part of the intent of that album is give it our own pictures and memories.  You don’t have to get all emotional over it.”  A sigh left Steve’s lips and Bucky’s heart twisted.  It wasn’t the same, and he knew that.

“I know,” Steve agreed, looking at another page. 

Curling metal fingers around the wheel, Bucky reached over and slid his hand along Steve’s arm, fingers seeking purchase between Steve’s, one large, warm palm against another.  He smiled, relaxing a little further into his seat as his eyes scanned the road again.

The engine of the car purred as wind whistled outside; snow twisted, tunneled and danced across the highway before skittering off into the air.  It was a wonder that the roads themselves weren’t totally buried with how much had come off and on, but Bucky wasn’t about to complain about the circumstances.  He was thankful they were clear enough to drive, and even more so that the cabin belonging to Steve’s friend was not terrible far.

Still, the quiet of the car, the occasional rustle of papers did only so much for Bucky; he was fortunate, and felt so, to be grounded by the weight and warmth of Steve’s hand, because the sky was darkening and the wind whipped white and grey.  In the distance was an orange-red glow, and Bucky’s fingers curled tighter around the wheel, metal sinking into leather, the sound of stretching and suppressing all at once just above the hiss of Bucky’s breath.

The blaze seemed to inch closer and closer and a weight developed, clawed, and settled into the top half of his chest, burning cold and making him sweat.  He tried to swallow, blinked profusely, and the glow burned brighter and brighter, heat washing across the back of his neck momentarily as a flash of fire crossed somewhere in the back of his mind.  His leg tensed, and he pressed his feet to the floor of his car.  _Oh, Christ—_

His tongue felt dry, and pressure circled around his hand, digging into his fingers, and Steve’s voice licked at the corner of his ear before he let out a breath, his foot twitching off of the gas.  The engine groaned, slowing, and he looked down to see the speedometer ticking down from eighty-five miles per hour.

“Hey, hey,” Steve said, gripping his hand, thumb drawing circles.  “You’re alright, Buck.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky licked his lips, checking the mirror to see headlights fading in the distance.  They’d passed another car.  “Yeah, I’m okay.  I’m good.”

“You’re right here with me.  We’re driving to the cabin.  Remember?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, I remember.  The cabin.  By the river.” 

“Need to pull off and have me take over?”

It was… almost tempting.  In retrospect for safety, he probably should have.  But he shook his head, breathing to comfort his own erratic heart.  It wasn’t exactly comforting, but he couldn’t allow his own reservations to pull him down.  Progress was still being made, and that was the most important thing.

Steve’s hand remained firm but supportive, occasionally giving a gentle squeeze and almost always continuing a constant circle from his thumb.  Bucky counted the revolutions and breathed with their pattern, and the thudding in his ears resolved itself to a dull roar that could almost constitute as relaxing. 

There were no other cars for the remainder of the highway stretch, but it wasn’t until they took the ramp off to head toward the side roads that the tension eased from Bucky’s legs, his metal fingers resorting to a lax grip than a death one.  Steve continued to trace circular designs into the knuckle of Bucky’s thumb.

Two turns, one winding road, and a graveled side street and Bucky eased the car to a stop in front of a small log cabin with a red front door and dark windows.  Twisting the key to turn off the engine, he sighed heavily, his head thumping back against the headrest of his seat.  Steve’s head turned, his eyes watching Bucky for a moment.  Shifting, Bucky met his gaze, and smiled weakly.

“Made it,” he said.  Steve smiled.

“Convoy?”  Steve asked, voice quiet.  Bucky swallowed and nodded once. 

“The tail lights,” he said, crinkling his nose for a moment, “with all the snow and everything…  The closer we got the more it looked like…  It’s silly.”

“No it’s not,” Steve pressed, “it looked real to you.  That’s not silly.”

“Glad you think so,” Bucky chortled.  Steve pursed his lips, looking away.

“C’mon.  Let’s get inside.  I’ll make you some cocoa.”

Bucky paused, and Steve had just opened the door when he reached out, taking his arm.  Reaching out, Bucky pulled Steve in close, pressing a kiss to his mouth.  Steve softened, a hand coming to cup Bucky’s cheek.  Forehead to forehead, Bucky nuzzled his nose against the tip of Steve’s.

“Thank you.”  Steve smiled, and kissed him again.

“C’mon, soldier boy.”

It made sense to make quick work of taking their things inside given that a gust of wind had cut through Bucky’s coat and sent such a chill down his spine that it was almost a wonder he hadn’t ripped the door off of its hinges trying to get inside.  Steve laughed while Bucky mumbled bitter words like _fucking winter and its fucking wind and who thought it was a good idea to live in a place that gets this cold this ain’t fucking okay_ before the two of them practically stumbled into the cabin.

Slamming the door shut, Bucky sighed heavily as his bag slid from his shoulder and dropped to the hardwood floor.  Steve reached out, dusting snow from Bucky’s hair before palming his cheeks to kiss him swiftly.  Moaning, Bucky returned the kiss, straightening and stepping closer just as Steve was pulling away.

“Ah, ah, I promised you cocoa.  Get settled, soldier boy.  I’ll be right back.”  Steve slipped off, skittering around the sofa and disappearing around the corner into what Bucky could only presume was the kitchen.  Shaking his head, he kicked out of his boots and jacket, letting his coat hang off of the back of the couch before crossing in front towards a large stone fireplace.  There was fresh wood sitting on the grate, an iron poker hanging from a hook and a stack of fire starters on the mantle.

Grabbing one, Bucky knelt down and arranged the firewood, setting the fire starter in the middle before standing once more.  Tucked against the corner of the mantle was a lighter, and upon further inspection of the poor dusty thing in the low light of the room he found that it still had a considerable amount of fluid.  It took less than a minute to light the starter, and only a few more for the wood, dried in the darkness of the cabin, to catch and begin to burn.

Setting the screen in front of the flames, Bucky stepped back onto a plush white fur rug.  Wiggling his toes, he kicked out of his socks, curling his toes into the fur before smiling faintly.  It was soft, cool as the fire grew.  Kneeling down, he sat with his back to the couch cushions, knees propped up and toes spreading wide in the fur.  Heat poured from the fireplace.

Steve’s footsteps were soft, whispers of _pit-pat_ along the hardwood.  Bucky reached up, taking one of the mugs from Steve’s possession before scooting ever so slightly to the right, making room for Steve on the fur against the couch.  Bringing the mug to his lips, he sipped slowly, tasting cream and cinnamon and chocolate.  Licking his lips, he hummed and sipped again.

Beside him, Steve smiled, drinking from his own mug.  “Feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Bucky admitted.  “I’m sorry.  Sometimes I go so long without anything that when something does happen, I feel like I’m… like I shouldn’t have let it bother me?”

“I know what you mean,” Steve assured, shifting to press close to Bucky’s side.  “When I first came home I did a lot of the same stuff with Nat.  How she put up with it, I can’t tell ya for sure.  But she did.”

“’Cause she loves you,” Bucky suggested, giving a glance across the way to Steve.  A smile pulled at his mouth, eyelashes kissing the tops of his cheeks as he looked to the mug in his hands before returning Bucky’s gaze. 

“She loves you too,” mused Steve, bumping his shoulder against Bucky’s.

Grinning, Bucky tilted his head, resting it on Steve’s hair, “We’re just a big triangle of love.  And scars and not-so-pleasant-memories.”

“Could be worse,” Steve pressed, sipping from his mug.  “We’re good where we’re at.  All of us.  We’ll get better.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

The fire crackled, flames licking between where the wood had split and the bark had separated from the grain.  Snow gathered along the window frames, the skies churning dark graphite colored clouds.  Cocoa had long since been sipped and enjoyed, empty mugs set aside on a nearby side table and out of the way.  Steve nestled close to Bucky’s side, hip to hip and knee to knee, his fingers following the lines and plates of Bucky’s left arm. 

Smiling softly, Bucky watched Steve’s fingertips dig into the grooves, a cool chill rushing along his side.  It was like a tickle at his neck, a prickly sense that he should have been able to feel Steve’s fingers, the way his nails chipped at the seams.  He swallowed slowly, lifting his gaze from Steve’s hands to his jaw, relaxed with lips lightly parted.  Flecks of facial hair clung to his throat and chin, dark stubble to match the darkening of his roots. 

Steve blinked, his blue eyes zeroing in on Bucky’s, and something… shifted, perhaps, in the depths of Bucky’s gut.  For it wasn’t the firelight casting shadows or the cocoa sitting warm but the subtle focus that Steve’s gaze took—the dilating of pupils, eyes becoming hooded in a half-lidded glance and Steve’s mouth had never tasted sweeter.  Beneath cinnamon and cream and breakfast from that morning at his parent’s place was whatever it could possibly be about Steve that drove Bucky nuts.  It was crisp, unlike the cool glide of his tongue along Bucky’s bottom lip, and it stole the breath from Bucky’s lungs as easily as smoke slipping through fingers. 

There was a breath somewhere beneath  the click of teeth bumping when excitement flourished, and a hushed chuckle erupted as a hand came to Bucky’s cheek, the thumb pressed just right of his nose and fingers digging just beneath his ear.  A heavy thump of his heart pressed between his lungs as he shifted, curling an arm around Steve and swinging him close, bringing him to his front.  A break in the moment, legs rearranging themselves and Steve’s hands cupped his face once more.

Sweat glistened along his brow, trickling down his back, and Bucky nudged at Steve’s jaw with his nose, fingers deftly playing at the hem of Steve’s shirt.  Cheeks flushed, a lower lip caught between teeth and with one motion and minimal coordination, Steve’s shirt flew across the room, rugged and broad shoulders soaking in the orange glow and dark shadows where fire could not quite stretch far enough.  But Bucky dipped his head, and kissed those edges, and left warmth of his own.

A shiver traced down to his gut as Steve kissed his hair line, nails digging briefly into his hips as Bucky’s teeth pulled at the space between Steve’s neck and shoulder.  Cheeks bumped, and Bucky laughed as Steve kissed him again, hands tangling into the sides of Bucky’s own shirt, pulling it up under his arms.  Smirking, Bucky stole one last kiss before raising his arms, freed of cotton, the tags thwacking flat against his chest.

Steve leaned back, his hands framing Bucky’s shoulders.  Behind him, the sunset glow of the fire illuminated his edges, a kind of glow surrounding his entirety.  Bucky sank against the front of the couch, his feet sliding into the fur.  Firelight turned his hair gold, shadows licking at his shoulder and jaw, hooding his eyes though the blue still seemed as pure and bright.  His mouth went dry as he leaned forward, kissing him hard and firm.

A moan passed from Steve’s lips to Bucky’s, his arms looping around his shoulders for a long moment.  Chains and tags rattled, and Bucky could feel the steady rhythm of Steve’s heart beating against his own.  It took less than a moment for two beats to merge and share a pattern together.

Bucky’s hands clawed at Steve’s back and shoulders, his knees all but supporting him as their chests flattened against one another.  Behind Steve, the fire crackled and spit, flames dancing and bouncing the shadows.  Sighing against his mouth, Bucky kissed Steve again and again, until his lungs ached and screamed for a moment’s respite even as his heart and body fought and yearned for just another fraction longer.

Arms shifted, elbows bumped and Steve’s hands fumbled at the belt of Bucky’s pants.  Gritting his teeth, Bucky reached down and ripped it free with his left hand, uncaring as a few pieces of metal and fabric scattered.  A laughter bubbled from Steve and spilled past Bucky’s teeth, shaking and free as it sunk into his blood and bones. 

They pulled away long enough to kick free of denim and cotton, Bucky only half-way swiping for Steve as the blond padded around the back of the couch long enough to fish through his bag before returning, a small bottle in his hand.  Kneeling into the fur, the warmth of the fire kissing his bare skin, Bucky snaked his arms around Steve’s middle, kissing at his hips and the tops of his thighs.  Steve’s smile burned brighter than the fire beside them, and Bucky brought him down into the furs.

Kisses were caught between hurried and languid, primal and sweet; more than once they bumped noses or knocked hands trying to touch one another.  Each time was met with a laugh and a look that chipped at Bucky’s heart—if he had asked, Steve would have said the same of his own.

Steve reached for the bottle, pressing the tab with his thumb to pop it open.  A hitch caught in Bucky’s throat for a moment, but Steve passed the bottle to his metal hand, fire glinting in his ocean colored eyes.  _Are you sure_?  Unspoken beneath the crackle, but Steve nodded slowly, and kissed Bucky’s jaw.

_Yes_.

Holding the bottle with his left, Bucky began to tilt the opening towards his right when Steve’s hand curled around his wrist, stopping him.  Surely there were logistics and cleanliness to consider, but the pull of Steve’s mouth made Bucky smile, and he switched, easing a thin stream of lube along his metal fingers.  The plates clacked together, slipping and sliding, and Steve lay back into the fur before spreading his knees apart.

It was such an understatement to say that Steven Rogers was a beautiful human being.  And it came to Bucky that, for all that the industry had done to show his sex appeal and his doubtlessly attractive physique, it had never done him _enough_ justice for how pure and elegant he could be.  And perhaps Bucky was biased—perhaps seeing Steve sprawled out in white fur with fire illuminating his every flaw and perfection meant that he had rose tinted glasses.

But he didn’t care.

He shifted, kneeling between Steve’s thighs long enough to lean down and kiss him slowly, deliberately holding him there for as long as physically possible before painting circles between his legs, his finger pressing and easing in slowly.  A soft, strained moan bubbled against his lower lip, and Steve’s body relaxed inch by inch.  He arched, his throat stretched and bare as his eyes fluttered shut. 

_You’re so beautiful_.

One joint became two, and two became his index finger pressed as deep as allowed.  Steve’s hands pulled at Bucky, nails leaving small welts and indentations in his shoulders and hips, and Bucky sucked matching red marks into the hollow of Steve’s throat as well as above his left pec, where he could feel Steve’s heart beating heavily.  One finger became two, and Steve shivered and gasped, eyes rolling back but a smile pulling his mouth just a little wider.

An _oh, fuck_ passed from Steve’s lips into the quiet of the air, and Bucky smiled, stretching his fingers wide, curling them until Steve’s body quaked and he cried out into the open of the cabin.  In the hollow of his chest, a breath got stuck in Bucky’s body and he choked, marveling at Steve and the shadows and the light and how lucky was he to be here, in this moment, with this man who had changed his life so much.  And he curled his fingers again and Steve jerked, shouting _James!_ and Bucky could only think that if he had to suffer again, if he had to be alone in the cold, damp, dark of some psycho facility—as long as he could see this face, see those eyes, kiss those lips at least once more…

It would all be worth it.

Every moment was worth it to get to this point. 

Clenching his jaw, Bucky mumbled something about needing him, about wanting him.  There was a twinge in his eyes and he bent his head to kiss Steve’s chest, the twinge becoming a burn as his shoulders trembled.  Steve’s hands circled, arms embracing.  _Yes, please… please…_

He fumbled with the bottle again, pulling his fingers free long enough to slick himself slowly before Steve was practically shoving him to the fur, swinging a leg over Bucky’s hips.  And Bucky couldn’t help but watch, head back in the fur and knees propped up as Steve kissed him.  His eyes closed, his hand coming to the back of Steve’s head as fingers straightened and angled his dick, and heat and tight and _oh my god, Steve_ —

Bucky’s back arched, eyes flying open and widening as something wet slid from the corner and down the side of his head, sinking into his ear as Steve sank down on him.  He’d been in women before, had been a recipient of oral and handjobs from people of different genders in the past but this was new and tighter than he had expected.  And with each inch that Steve took it was like a hand had cupped around his lungs, squeezing just a little tighter until he was gasping for air and Steve was shaking on top of him.

_I’d do it all again for this.  I’d enlist, I’d go overseas…  If this is what my path has given me, I wouldn’t change a damn thing about it_.

He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing slowly as his body trembled.  The fire blazed but Steve’s body was so much more comforting and warm and safe than any cabin or home could have ever been.  And for a moment he couldn’t fathom any other place but this, any other day or week or month.  He wouldn’t want to, but that didn’t stop him from thinking, from wondering how different it could have all been.  He was, in every literal sense, balls deep in Steve Rogers and he couldn’t help but wonder, if briefly, how things would be had he not gone to war, had he not gone to Gwen’s, had he thought nothing of the beautiful blond and redhead in the films he rented. 

Had he not followed his gut and, truthfully, his heart.

Moaning deeply, Bucky arched, hands gripping Steve’s hips as he rolled his own, thrusting hard and deep, and earning a stifled groan of pleasure.  He bit his lip gently, tightening his grip as Steve’s own hands reached back and dug into Bucky’s thighs.  Hissing softly, he thrust harder, digging his heels into the fur rug.

“Buck,” Steve whined, breath coming in soft pants.  “Shit, Bucky…”

“Yeah—?”  Arching again, Bucky inhaled shakily as pleasure coiled down his spine.  Steve whimpered, wordlessly moaning while his head fell back.  “Fuck, Steve…” 

Shifting, Bucky held tight to Steve before rolling them over again.  Repositioning, he brought Steve’s legs around his ribs, slamming into him as his knees pressed hard into the fur, the metal of his arm gleaming and casting streaks of light across Steve’s face. 

He wanted it to go on forever, and with every beat of his heart, thrust of his hips and the cries that escaped from Steve’s mouth, Bucky almost thought that it might.  If he could close himself in a paradox of continuous love making with Steve Rogers, he would.  But even as such, he would miss the kisses and the softer moments spent curled up, or sharing a cup of coffee early in the morning, and perhaps it wasn’t so bad that life couldn’t be spent so sexually intimate.

Deep in the back of his mind, while rolling his hips and taking Steve’s hands in his own to lace their fingers, Bucky could see it—that white picket fence dream, the dog, the growing together and taking everything just another step further, another step down the path.  He kissed Steve’s throat, and he could see cherry blossoms and bow ties, and summers at the coast holding onto a pair of smaller hands.

Gasping, Bucky rocked his hips again, one of Steve’s hands disappearing from his own to reach down and grip at his cock.  Steve’s legs tightened, his eyes squeezed shut, and Bucky looked to his metal hand, holding Steve’s right, and he wondered what it would look like to see gold.

And then there was pressure, an ache twisting and bubbling in the base of his spine, burning hot in his gut.  His heart had jumped into his throat, and Steve babbled into his shoulder before Bucky turned his head to silence him with a kiss.  And for a moment he wondered whether he was silencing Steve or himself, and all of everything that had flooded him.  They were so fresh, so young and yet his heart screamed as though it had been years. 

Steve jerked, crying out as he came, and it was within a moment and without a doubt as Bucky’s world echoed and faded at the edges.  He moaned, certain that Steve’s name had passed his lips as his fingers squeezed and relaxed.  Beneath him, Steve panted heavily, eyes half closed and dazed, skin alight with a dying glow of the fire.  But Bucky stared, seeing every line, every freckle, every inch, knowing that they could fumble and trip and maybe fall along the way but there was no going back.  There was no turning around and giving up. 

Somewhere along the way Bucky’s fragmented spirit had been mended with little pieces of Steve’s, and parts of his heart had healed the chips Steve suffered, and there would be no end of the line where one was without the other—not by choice, at any rate.  Swallowing slowly, Bucky dipped his head and kissed Steve slowly, as if sealing some promise, some reminder that this would always be theirs, would only ever be theirs.  And damn the rest.


End file.
